


BBC Sherlock: UNSUMMONED

by Wynsom



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 08:20:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13383900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynsom/pseuds/Wynsom
Summary: ooOOooAn Interpretation of key scenes from The Reichenbach Fall  (originally published 9/5/2015 in Fanfiction site.)John grieved for two years after Sherlock died and blamed himself because he was too late in understanding what was happening on the ledge of St. Bart's. He had been so tragically wrong about Sherlock's intention, he wondered if he really knew his unknowable friend Sherlock Holmes at all. But in this examination of those scenes from TRF, we realize that John was not wrong about Sherlock having another plan, it just wasn't the plan he could ever have imagined.





	1. Unsummoned

**BACKSTORY TO THIS CHAPTER:**

**_From the very beginning, whenever Mycroft snatched John away "for little talks" about Sherlock, John had usually been disadvantaged by the timing, place, and nature of these meetings._ **

  
**_This story opens with the scene from TRF, when, John CHOOSES the timing, controls the topic, and dominates his meeting with Mycroft. And although John appears composed for the duration, the subtext of his seething fury and fears, borne from his allegiance to Sherlock, deserves greater scrutiny. (Without question, the masterful performance by Martin Freeman is riveting and chilling.)_ **

 

 

**ooOOoo**

It was worse than he had imagined.

Whilst awaiting Mycroft in the private room at the Diogenes Club, John thoroughly reviewed the contents of Kitty Riley's folder on Sherlock, the truth mixed with the lies. The details she had collected from Sherlock's real life were staggering. In fact, some of the contents John had never known, but they appeared true. Some he had picked up anecdotally, from the Holmes brothers, from Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, Mike Stamford, everyone who knew Sherlock before John had entered his life. There was even evidence of personal documents John had seen in their flat.

_How else could she have got her hands on these except from…?_

The whole picture she had assembled for her damaging exposé, spanning years, was like one enormous jigsaw puzzle. Only someone who was intimate with the great detective—a number counted on one hand—would be able to discern the fabricated pieces from the authentic ones.

Hearing Mycroft cross the threshold behind him, John imagined the powerful man's dismay upon discovering him seated, back turned away, in one of the fine leather mahogany chairs. Using this tactical advantage of surprise, the ex-soldier immediately took the offensive.

"She has really done her homework, Miss Riley —" Giving a disapproving shake of his head, John slapped the papers on his knee, twisted toward the doorway behind him where the elder Holmes stood, and acknowledged Mycroft's presence with a sidelong glance. "These things that only someone close to Sherlock could know." It was a statement of hard facts, spoken by a man in firm control, both of his simmering temper and the room. Yes, he had learned well from the Holmes brothers. Sentiment and emotion would have been thrown back in his face. The only indicator that conveyed his bottled rage was that he remained seated. Trained to stand in deference to his superiors, John did not rise from his chair when Mycroft entered the room. He had lost respect for the man he blamed for Sherlock's predicament.

"Ah," was Mycroft's inadequate reply.

As the elder Holmes closed the polished wood-paneled door, John suspected, Mycroft had some trepidation about John's unbidden appearance. The tables had been turned at last. Unlike so many of their previous encounters, John had  _not_ been summoned or abducted, nor caught off guard by the machinations of the supreme but invisible power wielded by Mycroft Holmes. John finally held the upper hand, and he gladly used it.

"Have you seen your brother's address book lately? Two names…" John gestured with the loose pages in frustration, pointing first to Mycroft than pounding his own chest with them. "…Yours and mine." His eyes, fixed with contempt, were trained on Mycroft who slowly walked by, "…and Moriarty didn't get this stuff from me."

"John…" With his umbrella in his right hand, his attaché case in the left, Mycroft paused in front of the seated combatant, looking down, as if he could intimidate John with his towering figure, like he tried in the past.

Not intimidated before, John was certainly not intimidated now; nor would he yield his advantage. Dismissing Mycroft's insufferable voice, he continued to gain ground by dominating the interrogation. "So how does it work, then? Your relationship? D'you go out for a coffee now and then, eh, you and Jim?"

Seeming resigned to the unavoidable confrontation, Mycroft had reluctantly seated himself in an identical chair facing the doctor, deposited his attaché case on the floor, and clasped the umbrella like a monarch's sceptre. Even as Mycroft opened his mouth to respond, John wouldn't let him utter a word.

"Your OWN brother," John waved the pages with a bluster and rage that choked his voice, making him feel breathless, "and you BLABBED about his entire life TO THIS MANIAC." With impeccable aim his words drove through the heart of the target.

Looking shamed and defeated, Mycroft swallowed softly, arched his eyebrows, and dropped his gaze. "I never inten..., I never dreamt ..." His right hand rose in weak protest.

Interrupting again, John couldn't bear hearing the turncoat's excuses. "So this ...th-th-this —" His eyes fell to the pages in his left hand, flipping from one to another before he leveled his glare on Mycroft once more. "... is what you were trying to tell me, isn't it: 'Watch his back, 'cause I've made a mistake.'" With one final sweeping gesture, he swung the papers to his right and smacked them down on table beside his chair.

Drawing in a sharp breath, John bowed his head and released a sullen sigh. It took only a moment to regain his self-control. When he raised his head, his eyes were clear and focused on Mycroft. "How did you meet him?"

Mycroft seemed restrained and hesitant. "People like him," words moved slowly through his viscous voice, "we know about them; we watch them. But James Moriarty," Mycroft's face wore a mix of admiration and dread, "... the most dangerous criminal mind the world has ever seen, and in his pocket? The ultimate weapon: a keycode." His hand parted the air like a door opening. "A few lines of computer code that could unlock any door."

"And you," John looked ceiling ward for the right word, "abducted him?" His change of tone, his emphasis on the word indicated he was aware of the irony, "to try and find the keycode?"

"Interrogated him for weeks," Mycroft's focus turned inward as he recalled the events: "He just sat there, staring into the darkness…The only thing that made him open up ... I could get him to talk ... just a little, but ... "

He didn't have to finish, John understood.

"... in return you had to offer him Sherlock's life story." The doctor quickly made the connection. "So one big lie—Sherlock's a fraud—but people will swallow it because the rest of it's true." John didn't need to say "okay, I get it;" his hand gesture of thumb touching fore finger expressed it for him. Tilting his head to reconsider the skewed logic of sacrificing Sherlock for Moriarty, John pressed a forefinger to his lips and raised his brows with sudden incredulity —it was all TOO unbelievably OUTRAGEOUS. But as he shifted forward in his seat, a seismic shift in his emotion occurred—savage rage trembled beneath the surface. "Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed, right? And you have given him…" John delivered the last two words with cataclysmic intensity "…the perfect ammunition."

A fierce grin that compelled Mycroft to bow his head with remorse lingered on John's face. Inhaling with a deep sigh, John quickly pulled to his feet and turned to go.

"John ..." Mycroft appealed.

John paused and looked down, realizing he felt complete disgust for the man.

"I'm sorry." The words seemed surreal, distant, coming from an introspective Mycroft.

"Oh, please ... " John sneered with a bitter laugh, but as he headed out of the room—purposefully leaving the door wide open behind him—he could not shake the sense of desolation that followed him.

**ooOOoo**

"Sod off, the lot of you!" John Watson thought aloud, grumbling under his breath. His fists curled by his side, he strode through the sitting room of the Diogenes Club. Stormed through was more like it, though none of the "most unsociable and unclubbable men in town" took notice, which was all well and good.

Curbing his roiling anger after his "little talk" with Mycroft, John wanted to roar at the top of his lungs and drive the silent and sleeping club members right out of their upholstered chairs as he passed, but his common sense maintained control. Once, he had been nearly expelled for loudly demanding to see Mycroft Holmes, but tonight John needed to keep a low profile. He was certain the Met would apprehend him soon enough for evading arrest. Chinning the Chief Superintendent was his crime, although his "escape" was at gunpoint as Sherlock's hostage. However, they were both still fugitives of the law, and despite Lestrade's sympathies, John knew they were on borrowed time.

Yet, the stunt did buy them a little more time, and time was what they needed to rip out the seeds of doubt that had been sown by Moriarty's plan. Richard Brook was the fake, not Sherlock Holmes! John could only hope Sherlock had a solid plan underway by now. When they had parted earlier that evening, his friend seemed to be onto something. With few other options of his own, John had decided Mycroft could use both a late-night visitor and, based upon his own suspicions, a sound thrashing.

Sound thrashing delivered, John did not feel better. He couldn't get away fast or far enough from the manipulators who played with real peoples' lives. His bad day had become a very bad night. He could only hope that the nightmare would end by morning.

A sudden gut-wrenching sensation hit John, nearly doubling him over, and he raised a steadying hand in the doorway to the alley. Although surprised, John immediately recognized his PTSD symptoms exacerbated, he imagined, by the serious allegations with which Sherlock was being charged, the smear campaign against Sherlock's reputation, and the inevitable incarceration unless they could fight the lies. John knew that if he closed his eyes, the tug of anxiety would make him feel as though he was falling from a great height, so he resisted.

"Damn you, Mycroft!" John scrubbed down his face and blinked several times to reset his sensory perception. If the plan had worked, Mycroft would have been using his influence to set things right. Instead, moments ago, John had learned the truth.  _What influence?_  he scoffed.  _Mycroft was worse than useless._

As careful to depart the Diogenes Club as he was to arrive, John ducked his way out through the service door and into an alley where he leaned against the masonry wall to think things through. With the promise of dawn, the night sky was beginning to pale much like John's former hope that Mycroft would have provided assistance.

 _"I'm sorry."_  Admitted the formidable brain-trust within the British government—the man who was so closely tied to the British Secret Service, it was unimaginable he couldn't pull some strings. Instead he seemed genuinely distraught by his helplessness, which sickened John even more. Mycroft's final words echoed in John's mind.  _"Tell him, would you?"_ John had often left their past "meetings" in a sour mood; tonight he tasted indescribable bitterness.

"Geezus!" His stomach clenched again, and he shook his head as if trying to clear his mind of unsummoned emotions he feared to name. Mycroft's betrayal was not something John had ever seen coming. Without Mycroft's aid, they were truly and terribly alone.

Tremendous foreboding, grief, and weariness gripped John. His legs were suddenly too tired to bear his weight. Sliding slowly down against the wall, he slumped to the ground, settling on his haunches in a crouching position.

_Sherlock, my brilliant friend, if you cannot protect yourself, what could I—an ordinary man—possibly do to save you?_

Cupping his face into his uplifted palms, John massaged his stinging eyes, his mind too fatigued to sort out the web of deceits strangling the truth he protected in his heart. As an army doctor, he knew the dangers of succumbing to utter desperation, often identified as  _Combat Stress Reaction_. In Afghanistan, Captain John Watson, MD, BAMF had seen it as a direct result of the trauma of war in the soldiers he would treat. He had observed their despondency, their sluggish reaction times, their disassociation with their surroundings, and their inability to find order or decide priorities in the simplest tasks.

In the face of what seemed to be a most hopeless situation, John realized how easy it would be to surrender to  _CSR_  and teeter into the abyss of despair.

But despair was the real enemy. Despair was the coward's retreat, and John Watson would not be a coward. He had never before felt so vulnerable, but he would be strong, he would protect his friend because he feared he was Sherlock's one and only… hope.

Lifting his head from his hands, he raised his eyes skyward recalling a soldier's prayer and softly murmured those all-too-familiar words that spoke of strength and courage derived from the Almighty:

… _Sustainer of all mankind…_   _Be thou their strength when they are set in the midst of so many and great dangers…._

Taking a moment to find solace in this silence, John dropped his head to his chest, swallowed hard, and inhaled deeply. Then he raised himself up along with his spirits, back to his feet once more, and knew it was time to push through and carry on.

 _But where to now?_ Their flat was under surveillance. Contacting Lestrade would only get him locked up at NSY, held for bail, and leave Sherlock totally without support. To what bolt hole did Sherlock retreat, where, chances were, he was formulating an opposing strategy?

On cue, as if the  _Sustainer of all mankind_  and his friend had heard his thoughts, John received a one-word text that spoke volumes:  _Bart's._

Setting his chin in defiance against the odds, he straightened his shoulders and pulled in a long deep breath. He would not show Sherlock any weakness. If nothing else, this was the least he could do. Ordinary or not, John would find some way to help as long as Sherlock needed his trust, needed his belief, needed him.

Whatever else Sherlock needed, John Watson was willing to do, even if he had to die trying.

**ooOOoo**

_Your feedback/review is always greatly appreciated. Thank you!_

**ooOOoo**

**_A.N. [spoiler] (We know later that Mycroft did not forsake Sherlock, but John does not know this when he confronts him at the Diogenes Club.)_ **

_Special thanks to englishtutor for her unflagging encouragement, indispensable help, and faith in me. Also, while I do diligently review (over and over and over) Sherlock episodes to transcribe dialog (over which I claim no rights) from the BBC show, I shortened my labors immensely again, during the course of composing this fanfiction, thanks to the wonderful and brilliant transcripts by Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan to whom I am now greatly indebted._


	2. Unsummoned again

_Follow-up scene from TRF: John would never have let Sherlock face Moriarty without him, so Sherlock had to devise a way._

**_oooOOooo_ **

When the trilling phone woke him, an exhausted John had been seated on a stool, slumped over the worktable in Bart's lab. He had closed his eyes and rested his head on his folded arms for only a few minutes. It was a fitful kip at best. The sound of the rolling squash ball under Sherlock's fiddling fingers was a constant, irritating tempo in the background.

Groggy, John raised his heavy head with a sigh, sniffled whilst checking his mobile, and answered after it trilled a third time.

"Yeah, speaking," The sleepy haze in his voice dissolved seconds later as he listened to the caller. "Ah, what?" John could not believe what he was hearing. His pulse quickened, his mind snapped awake, and he leapt to his feet, pivoting toward the door as he sought clarification. "What happened? Is she okay?" Holding his breath, he waited another half a beat. The news was terrible. Making an about-face toward Sherlock, he nodded excitedly— "Oh, my God! Right, yes, I'm coming"—and rang off.

"What is it?" Expressionless, Sherlock had been leaning back in his chair with his feet propped on the benchtop, his long legs crossed at the ankles.

"Paramedics! Mrs. Hudson – she's been shot." Saying it aloud made the tragedy more potent. John paced in small circles trying to decide what to do first.

"What?" Sherlock showed the slightest curiosity. "How?"

"Well…," Trying to clear his mind, John struggled to find sense in the otherwise senseless act—why she would have been a target—until he realized the connection. "Probably one of the killers you managed to attract ..." Wagging his head, John groaned at their culpability. "Jesus! JEE-sus! She's dying, Sherlock." He tossed his friend a cursory glance and grabbed his jacket, "Let's go!" Without any doubt, he expected Sherlock to respond to the urgency and follow him out the door.

"You go. I'm busy."

John halted and whirled on Sherlock, appalled by the detective's blatant indifference. It was unbelievable that Sherlock  _couldn't_ be bothered with this emergency concerning Mrs. Hudson, although Sherlock had just made it perfectly clear. Astonishment contorted John's face as he repeated the offending word. "Busy?"

"Thinking. I need to think." Sherlock clicked hard on the final "k" to punctuate his firm decision.

Dumbfounded, John recoiled as if he had been struck in the face. "You need to ...? Doesn't she mean anything to you? You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her." The ache broke his voice.

"She's my landlady." Creasing his brow, Sherlock shrugged off John's compassion as irrelevant and adverted his eyes.

If he had ever  _believed_  a "fondness" lived in Sherlock Holmes's heart, John saw the hope of human emotion flatline in the inscrutable face. "She's dying!" Seething, John groped for words, using his raised hand to gesture emphatically in the absence of coherent speech, until, trembling with rage, he lashed out, "You— _MACHINE_!"

Had he noticed a flicker of hurt in those ice-colored eyes, a flinch in the face, a twitch in the lips, John would not have been so deeply disillusioned by the man he most admired. Instead, all John saw was insufferable stillness, like Sherlock  _bloody_  Holmes was frozen in place, feet up, ankles crossed, unaffected by anything John had to say. Bowing his head, shock became fury, and fury fed his resolve. He had no time to spare. "Sod this.  _Sod_ this!" John turned away and headed for the door. "You stay here if you want, on your own."

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me," the cold-blooded man said tonelessly.

Repelled as never in his memory, John pulled open the door, and with one backward glance, answered with a voice as hard as steel, "No. Friends protect people."

_00000_

When the taxi discharged John kerb side, there were no emergency services blockading Baker Street, no paramedics wheeling a gunshot victim on a stretcher out the door. Fearing he was too late, John rushed in to 221 to learn that Mrs. Hudson hadn't been shot, she was not dying. Rather, Martha Hudson was very much alive and chatting with the heavily-tattooed handyman.

"Has Sherlock sorted it all out?" was the only part of her greeting he heard.

"Hoo-myyy-god…" A dreaded, familiar queasiness— as if falling from a great height—hit John hard. Stunned by the stark realization that he had been deceived, John turned without reply and sped out to Baker Street. His mind raced—Sherlock  _had_  indeed sorted it all out—and his gut twisted with panic. Like a bloody idiot, he had gone off on Sherlock's wild goose chase, leaving his friend exposed, vulnerable, and facing danger completely  _alone!_

_00000_

Commandeering the first passing taxi under false claims of "Police Business… _sort of_ …," the eighteen-minute mad-dash back to Bart's was tortuous—especially in John's thoughts.

How could he have been so blind? He had utterly missed the clues— _utterly_ —clues staring him in the face, and particularly the clues in Sherlock's face. " _You see, but you do not observe."_  How many times had Sherlock chided him for this shortcoming?

John's own face flushed with anger the more he realized the detective had relied on this weakness,  _exploited_  it, and manipulated John's affection for Mrs. Hudson to get him away from Bart's.

_Why?_

As the cabbie headed east on Marylebone Road, John was unnerved by the question and tried piecing together what he had  _actually_  seen, but again failed to observe.

_Think! Remember!_

Immediately, John recalled how Sherlock had sat stoically during the phone conversation. At that time, it struck John as odd, although he was distracted by the call, so he ignored it. And at each turn, John continued to dismiss the motionless pose, the dry, disinterested tone, the distant look, the gaze deliberately averted, all mannerisms that were exasperating to John on a subliminal level. Even on his worst days, this was certainly atypical behavior for Sherlock. Just as mystifying, Sherlock showed the barest interest in the information, and not once did he deduce or question  _anything_  about the caller.

 _He didn't have to. He knew all along. He probably concocted the whole scheme._ So, w _ho called me? Not paramedics! One of his tramps, is that it? For Christ's sake, I'm a bloody doctor, and I fell for it! Arse!_

The more he concentrated on what transpired, the more his suspicions were supported by his recollection of Sherlock's replies _: "I'm busy…I have to think…She's my landlady."_  Sherlock had been so infuriatingly detached—it was so bloody obvious now— that he sent John into a complete tailspin.

The volume of morning traffic had increased since his earlier trip from Bart's, and although John watched as they crawled past the Euston Underpass sign, he kept his focus on the past and disregarded the slow-moving present.

Whilst John was irritated that he had been played and annoyed that he was a such a cock up, shame cooled his temper. It was not hard to imagine Sherlock's disappointment in John for being so easily fooled. He should have realized that not seeing the flicker, the flinch, the twitch was the  _MOST_  important evidence that all was not as it seemed!

Worse still, in the heat of the moment, John had raged at him."You— _MACHINE_!" Cringing now at his own words, John registered tremendous guilt. How quick he had been to misjudge the detective's motives, proving to Sherlock, yet again, that his "only-got-one-friend" was incapable of seeing "what was really going on" beneath the dispassionate façade.

Had John been a  _real_  friend, he would have seen through the smoke screen—especially about Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock was probably hoping John would pass the test, look beyond the trickery, and share in the solution. The genius needed his audience, he needed to be seen, and understood, but John had failed him miserably on all three counts. With friends like John, Sherlock didn't need arch enemies.

But, explaining the "what" and the "how" didn't answer the " _why."_

 _Why_  had Sherlock manipulated him, making sure that he was summoned from Bart's by the bogus call? Was something about to happen at Bart's and Sherlock didn't want John involved?

Having barely registered their progress past Tavistock Square, Russell Square, John noticed the taxi finally turning onto High Holburn, and rubbed his head in frantic worry; shame and guilt gave way to deep regrets.

_Bollocks! What a bloody idiot I am! Fell for another convincing act: "Alone protects me!" No! Friends protect you, mate!_

Once the taxi pulled around Bart's to the ambulance station in the back, John's heart pounded with foreboding. The answers to all his questions were waiting in Bart's lab. With a sinking feeling, however, John considered another possibility. What if this diversion to get him out of the lab, was not Sherlock's doing? What if it were Moriarty's ploy to divide and conquer…? And John had left Sherlock in danger without backup.

_Please God, don't let me be too late!_

As he quickly exited the taxi, his mobile rang, and Sherlock's number appeared.

"Hello?"

"John."

Profoundly relieved to hear Sherlock's baritone, John's heart turned handsprings—he wasn't too late after all.

"Hey, Sherlock, you okay?"

**oooOOooo**

_Special thanks to englishtutor and my honorable friend for their enormous insights, and to Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan for her transcripts which have proved indispensable in shortening my labors._


	3. A Fall From Grace

 

_Did John believe Sherlock would jump?_

 

**_This chapter picks up from Chapter 2 a heartbeat later._ **

**oooOOooo**

"Turn around and walk back the way you came, now—"

"—No, I'm coming in," John protested whilst he raced around the ambulance station with the phone glued to his ear. Spurred into action as he exited the taxi, John was hell bent on recovering from the deception that had lured him away. Noticing the sharp urgency in Sherlock's voice on the phone, however, John's elation instantly vaporized.

"Just do… as I ask!" Sherlock's tremulous baritone—transmitted unmistakably through the mobile earpiece—slowed John's rapid pace and triggered alarms in his mind; his gut clenched a warning of imminent danger. "Please." Sherlock's final entreaty stopped John in his tracks.

"Where?" John sought guidance, but Sherlock offered nothing further.

Bewildered by the paradox of Sherlock's order and the directives of his own instincts, John chose to obey his friend. He reversed course and marched back, hearing only his thudding heartbeat and pounding footsteps. The worrying silence within the phone compelled him to hurry. When John had almost reached the spot where the taxi had discharged him, Sherlock's voice burst sharply in his ear. "Stop there!"

Puzzled, John scanned the area. Where was Sherlock that he could see and not be seen? "Sherlock?"  _Explain this please_  he would have continued, except Sherlock spoke once more.

"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."

Raising his eyes above the inscription  _Pathological Department of St. Bartholomew Hospital_  on the fascia of the building, John saw the outline of what resembled an enormous raven perched for flight, but he knew it was no bird. "Oh God!" Dread made him back away and blink in disbelief at the sight of Sherlock standing on the ledge over the word  _Pathological_.

"I ... I ... I can't come down, so we'll ... we'll just have to do it like this." The distinctive voice in the phone against John's left ear was laced with regret.

With one deep breath to clear his mind, John dared not presume the obvious. "What's going on?" He took a second, third, and fourth breath to quell his panic. It was easily five hundred meters between the rooftop of St. Bart's and where he stood on the pavement. The disadvantage of this distance made John nervous and utterly powerless to help Sherlock.

"An apology." Head bent, Sherlock paused long enough to compose his voice. "It's all true."

"Wh-what?" Baffled by the declaration, John could not comprehend what he was hearing.

"Everything they said about me…." Sherlock's head tilted slightly, glancing at something on the rooftop behind him. He continued speaking in dull tones as he turned back to look down on John, "I invented Moriarty."

Stunned, John stared upward, with knitted brows and dropping jaw. His studied the billow of the long dark coat, the curls spiking in the breeze—every detail that established the familiar figure of his friend—and fought back his irrational fear.  _Com'on, an ordinary man on a ledge is likely to off himself, but_ NOT _Sherlock Holmes! It's an act. He MUST have another plan._

Yet, the sight riveted him to the spot, and Sherlock's words rattled him. _Sherlock doesn't care about what people think. Said so himself, so Moriarty's game can't be wearing him down. Besides, he knows I know the whole truth. Doesn't_ my _opinion count?_

Caught in the conundrum between belief and denial, John wagged his head, the motion nearly dislodging the phone where it had been pressed tightly against his left cheek. John was strong enough to resist the "nagging little sensations" and withstand any attack upon his unshakable belief in Sherlock Holmes—even from the man now standing on the ledge admitting to lies, but he couldn't help worrying. At last, he took a shaky step back and exhaled with breathy dismay. "Why are you saying this?"

Sherlock didn't respond immediately, as though he was struggling to speak. When he finally answered, his voice quivered and broke sorrowfully. "I'm a fake."

"Sherlock ..." Quickly objecting, John blinked in confusion. Sherlock's distress was much more convincing, even if his disclosure was not.

"The newspapers were right all along." Sherlock teetered as he spoke, his baritone welling with tears, "I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly ... in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock,  _SHUT_  up!" Refuting the false confession, John's mind was awhirl with denial, "The first time we met ...," he argued in frustration, "…the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?" He nodded, reaffirming his belief in his friend despite everything Sherlock was saying.

"Nobody could be that clever," Sherlock scoffed.

"You could," John asserted defiantly. No longer would he let the smoke screen blind him. This time, he would pass Sherlock's test, look beyond the trickery, and share in the solution.

Sherlock laughed in surprise, perhaps taken aback by John's display of fierce loyalty. For a moment, John held hope…that his words struck home and that he was mistaken about Sherlock's intention. The longer Sherlock remained silent, the greater grew John's certainty that the genius must have a strategy that confounded his own "ordinary" brain. With eyes fixed on the man on the edge, John relaxed the tight hold on the phone. Desperately persuading himself that he had won back Sherlock's confidence, he awaited the one word, one sign that the baffling ruse was over and he'd be called into the action alongside his friend.

But Sherlock did not summon him to fight side-by-side. Rather, after the sustained pause, the detective's countermove was as calculating as it was heart-wrenching, "I researched you." Sherlock's verdict was final, he was casting John off.

In shock, John was stymied by the outrageous confession being used to repel him. He sidled from one foot to the other like a fighter facing an opponent and gritted his teeth, feeling decidedly outmatched, hurt that he had no power or influence over Sherlock's decision.

"Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you."

Whilst Sherlock continued pushing him away, just like he had done in the lab, John stood his ground, rooted by his utmost faith in his friend. At least, now, John recognized the tactic and listened harder. Becoming keenly attuned to the nuances in Sherlock's voice, he could no longer deny the hopelessness behind the deliberately biting words, the grief over a reputation destroyed, the sadness at losing face, or the betraying sniff of suppressed emotions. A dark dread so great tightened around John's heart as a new fear dawned—could all this be  _real_?

"It's a trick." Sherlock aimed his words with precision and pierced John's stalwart belief. "Just a magic trick."

"No." John reeled back, closed his eyes, and shook his head, his voice nearly breaking. "All right, stop it now." Resigned that he had failed to change Sherlock's brilliant mind and unable to understand the strategy that kept them apart, John charged toward the hospital. He  _could_  stop this…., stop this  _now,_  and better deal with Sherlock's charade and merciless volley of lies face-to-face, on even ground.

"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move."

Again, the odd command and the urgent tone in Sherlock's voice halted John's forward momentum. Rather than upset his friend further, he stepped backward into position, kept his eyes on the figure on the roof ledge with the phone pressed tightly to his ear, and raised his right hand in a gesture of resigned compliance. "All right," he said softly, in an attempt to calm his overwrought friend.

With his arm reaching out as if their hands might touch, Sherlock directed his friend on the ground to remain in position. As he spoke, Sherlock's breaths sounded quicker in John's ear and indicated a new level of distress. "Keep your eyes fixed on me." The higher register in Sherlock's quivering baritone confirmed this, "Please, will you do this for me?"

Alarms were clamoring on so many levels, but whilst John's mind was slow in believing Sherlock would do the unthinkable, his gut instincts reacted by stalling for more time. "Do what?"

"This phone call – it's, ah ... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they?" Filtered through the detective's distraught emotional state and extreme isolation, the meaning was all too clear.

Never good at expressing his emotions, John was rendered speechless, choked up by the surge of emotional turmoil that overwhelmed him as he heard the futility in his friend's voice. Unsummoned, John's anxieties returned in full force—the falling sensation that dropped towards the pit of his stomach.

"– leave a note?"

Frantic, John focused on the figure standing far above him. Shaking his head in distress, he swung the phone down, away from his face—as if he couldn't bear to hear anymore—but, realizing it was the only connection he had with his friend, the only way he could keep the communication open, he swiftly planted it again on his ear. "Leave a note, when?" There was no hiding his anguish.

"Goodbye, John." Sherlock stated with solemn finality.

"No." John swayed, helpless in his obedience to Sherlock's last wish. "Don't." John backed away, shaking his head with fear and guilt. Too late! He had failed his friend! With immobilizing terror, John could not take his eyes off Sherlock who also seemed frozen in position with his phone close to his ear, seconds after he had finished speaking, as though he had wanted so badly to keep talking, wanted just one more word from his friend. Then, John saw the arm swing down and toss the phone onto the rooftop behind.

Inhaling, John lowered his own phone. " _NO!_  SHERLOCK!" He roared as powerfully as his lungs allowed, as if his very voice could hold Sherlock back.

Like a graceful bird readying for flight, Sherlock stretched his arms wide, leant forward into the air, and plunged earthward.

"Sher...," John gasped in horror as his friend and his world came crashing down.

The billowing coat, like black wings, fluttered. Flailing limbs pinwheeled in freefall and the dark figure plummeted for several heartbeats as the famous Sherlock Holmes fell from grace, whilst John Watson witnessed.

The ambulance station blocked the final view of impact, but there was a sound of the thudding body. Immediately, John experienced sound loss, as if a powerful explosion not dampened by the ambulance station had caused his momentary deafness. Sluggish limbs impeded his immediate response. Like running through water, he struggled to round the corner and spotted in the distance an inert form lying on the pavement. Although it was a partial view past a parked lorry, he recognized the long black coat and the dark head of hair.

In a blink, John was hit from behind and slammed into the asphalt street. A blinding pain in his head momentarily cut off his vision and threatened him with darkness as he lay stunned on the street. Only the purpose in his heart, to reach Sherlock, kept him conscious and focused. Slowly twisting onto his side, aching in body and mind, John squinted toward the scene of the tragedy where onlookers gathered around Sherlock's body. Still dizzy and disoriented, John pushed himself up and fought his way toward the crowd, murmuring as he staggered over, "Ssshrrlck, Sssherlock."

Blurred glimpses of stethoscopes, scrubs, and lab coats worn by Bart's responders who huddled around his friend registered with John as he approached and identified himself, "I'm a doctor, let me come through. Let me come through, please." His groggy voice was so filled with anguish that several people tried to detain him, but no one could hold him back. "No, he's my friend." With quavering voice, he pleaded and pressed through restraining arms, "He's my friend. Please."

Thrusting his torso through the tangle of medical personnel protecting Sherlock's body, John managed only to clasp the limp wrist of his friend; he felt the fading warmth of recent life, without the beat of a pulse—the moment between life and death. John  _could_  not let go, not yet. He  _would_ not let go, until he was sure the life had gone, and the skin grew cold, no matter how many hours it took, but a woman pried free his fingers that circled the lifeless wrist, and another gently took him aside.

"Please, let me just ... "John lurched in a rallying effort to touch his friend once more, but paramedics had quickly wheeled out a trolley to transport Sherlock's body, preventing further contact. John collapsed under the weight of in-rushing grief, nearly losing consciousness in the consoling arms of strangers. The fog in his mind cleared when the paramedics rotated the prostrate body. His aching head and limbs were nothing compared to the ache of his heart breaking at the sight of Sherlock turned upright and lifted onto the trolley. Blood covered his friend's face and head, those luminous eyes peered sightlessly. John moaned in heart-wrenching despair. " Nnnngh, Jesus! No!" Never had he experienced death on this emotional level: he could not rise, he could not breathe, he could no longer feel, and he did not know if he wanted to live.

More strong arms entwined John's shoulders, pulling him back and lifting him away.

"God, no." Unable to turn away from the broken body, John soundlessly mouthed,  _Oh, God,_ several more times, as his dead friend disappeared into the building. Nameless strangers assisted him to his feet with gentle hands and kind voices. Blurry faces peered at him, questioning his condition, accepting his raised palms and assurances that he was fine. Then, they left him, dazed, devastated, and alone in a skewed world without Sherlock Holmes as snow began to fall.

**oooOOOooo**

 

_Also thanks to my beta friends, who again reviewed this in advance, as well as the dialog provided in the labor-saving transcript by Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan, and most especially for the inspired acting by Martin Freeman and Benedict Cumberbatch, whose exceptional talents never make this scene tiring no matter how many times I view it. Of course, all disclaimers regarding ownership apply._


	4. Still Breathing

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Wet snow flurries caught in his blonde lashes. John blinked several times, and the action stirred him from his stupor.

He recognized the pavement near the West Smithfield bus stop behind St. Bart's and wagged his head, but his memories were veiled by vague impressions; he couldn't shake a nagging sensation as he became more oriented. Automatic reflexes had kept him breathing and upright when his awareness had shut down, but no longer could he ignore the commotion around him.

"Stay back!" Shouting constables leapt from parked emergency cars with their blue lights swirling to keep the curious crowd from interfering with the scene of operations. "Stand clear!" Following access-control protocols, they cordoned off a section of the road between the red-bricked ambulance station and the grey stone of the hospital wall, and again between the red phone box and the bus stop, whilst enclosing the blood-stained pavement within barriers of yellow tape.

The sight of blood jolted John's memory. A sharp pain behind his eyes made him wince, and a rush of grief blasted him like frigid air. With great restraint, John stifled an anguished outburst, squared his shoulders, and fought for control.

Where he was standing beyond the yellow tape, John was an outsider, blocked like all the other onlookers from the scene of the tragedy, but unlike everyone else, he could not budge from the spot. The pool of blood—if he could just drop his eyes and look at it—was several meters away, the last vestiges of his  _fr‒ ‒_  his terrible loss. Summoning the strength to stand guard, John felt the pull of duty and the instinct to protect, even though there was no one to protect now—he had been too late.

"Describe what you saw." A uniformed PC within earshot of John had flipped open her official notebook as she addressed the "witnesses" who had stepped forward, claiming to have seen it all. Their excited replies were loud and unintelligible to John, who again shook his head to clear it. The movement only brought him more pain, but it triggered an answer to her words in his mind.

 _Unthinkable!_   _…_ he struggled with the shock _… nightmare!_

More police appeared. Although John recognized none of the plain-clothed CID officers, he turned a casual shoulder to prevent them from noticing him. They, however, didn't circulate the crowd; instead they went directly through the hospital entrance.

The  _same_ entrance John felt powerless to enter, not because he was still a fugitive, not for fear of consequences or public disgrace if he were apprehended, but because the very idea of abandoning the _bloody "_ incident ground," the scene of the tragedy, was impossible to do right now.

John wrestled indecisively with his priorities. The noise levels were irritating. His head throbbed, his body seemed bruised in places, and darkness threatened his vision. He inhaled the crisp morning air with several deep breaths, hoping to restore his focus. Perhaps it was a mistake, for a sudden clarity of images exploded with shards of piercing memory that made him gasp.

Some bystanders took notice with suspicious glances, but they gave him a wide berth without speaking to him.

 _Fine_. He presumed he looked as badly as he felt—disheveled and swaying like a drunk—but the last thing he wanted was attention. It was hard, however, to think about his next step; the ringing in his ears was maddening. With palms pressed tightly against his ears to cut down the thought-splitting volume, John bowed his head. Yet, as he blocked off all outside sound, far worse were his memories, reverberating in overlapping echoes from their last conversation, echoes of words he could not believe.

_"…Apology… True… Invented…Fake, Trick… Goodbye—"_

A new clamor drew his attention toward the street. He uncovered his ears and brought his hands to his sides. Camera crews and reporters waded through the throng to harvest sound bites for mid-morning broadcasts.

"D'ya see the jumper? What did he look like? D'ya know him? Did he say why…?" They hurled questions, like mud, hoping something might stick.

Their approach enraged John—their lies had  _killed_ his friend—and his body reacted. His lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes smoldered under knitted brows, and his two hands curled into tight fists prepared to make forceful contact. He imagined for the moment how good it might feel to throttle someone, anyone, and trade his pain with another, but decency and reason prevailed, and an urgency to keep a low profile held him back. As John swallowed the fury that rose in his throat, the humming in his head became more intense, and his heart pounded so loudly in his ears, he thought others might hear. With reluctant backward steps, he withdrew a short distance away to relative safety from intrusive questioning. Wary, he remained perfectly still, except for his left hand. It wouldn't stop trembling.

How long he watched, he didn't know, maybe just a few minutes, but the passage of time both slowed and accelerated simultaneously; his internal clock was as unreliable as his sense of reality. Fog continued to mist his thinking, weariness menaced his endurance, but he realized he needed to push through, push on, push past. He just couldn't figure out why.

A two-way police radio, affixed to the belt of a nearby constable in a reflective vest, barked suddenly, and John snapped to attention. The PC, lifting the receiver to his mouth, acknowledged the caller and waited. "Coroner's on route. Send him up as soon as he arrives," the voice commanded and ended the transmission with specific crime codes.

John understood both codes.  _They had found another body on the roof. A gun involved._  This news, an unexpected blow, caught John off guard. He reeled and flung out his arm for balance against the stone wall of the hospital.  _What? Who? Why?_  Baffling questions proliferated and spiraled within his thoughts. The scenario had changed:  _Who else was on the roof? Was there someone from behind forcing the act…the lie…the leap? Someone pushing somehow, with words or at gunpoint or with some threat, someone who was killed before, during, or after the fall…? if before, then why jump anyway?_ John choked on a soft moan, dropped his dizzy head and breathed deeply to calm himself.

Even more than before, John could  _not_  believe the motivation for suicide, could  _not_  believe that his friend despaired and jumped to his death because his reputation had been ruined. There was a reason for the act—this final act—that John could not understand. Whether he ever received answers, not likely since his connections to Greg, Mycroft and Shhrr… had been severed, the one irrefutable truth remained; his best friend was dead, and nothing could change that.

When he lifted his head again, his focus was blurry, his balance shaky, and he seemed to be viewing the entire scene from the reverse side of a telescope. Even the broad grey skies that swirled with light precipitation appeared remote.

 _It's a slight concussion, compounded by shock._ His internal physician spoke in that all-too familiar clinical voice, calmly diagnosing the symptoms he presented.  _Even so, over stimulation of the brain post-injury will NOT allow the brain to heal. Identify and avoid your triggers_.  _Do nothing to increase your heart rate. Using your brain to think hard, read, study, or try to figure out these inexplicable events may be very difficult and may aggravate your condition._

Earlier, John had successfully underplayed his condition with the paramedics, offering them assurances that he was fine, even though he knew it wasn't completely true. Although he was dazed, he could function, and under such tragic circumstances, disregarding these recommendations was his prerogative—except the longer this voice spoke in his head, the more it had become Sherlock's.

 _My advice_ ,  _John? Go get rest, so you can recover and be of some better use to me._

John obeyed his friend's voice, a part of him acutely aware it was a delusion conjured by his bereavement. Somehow, it didn't matter; it gave him direction and purpose. Camouflaged as an inconspicuous and small man in a large crowd, he retreated unnoticed from the multitude. He knew where he had to go. There was only one place that might comfort his injured brain and broken heart.

00000

During his taxi ride back to Baker Street, John tried to let his mind float, but rather, it dropped in free fall. As he watched through the window whilst the familiar city-scape of London glided horizontally by, images of the fall and sensations of loss and despair jumped from one association to another in a downward plunge.

Despite their intensity, he let none of his thoughts surface in his face. Aware of the cabbie's glances in the rearview mirror, John sat rigidly against the back seat and mastered the twitches of his lips and flinches in his lids that would have betrayed him. He didn't react, even when the unexpected trill of his phone startled him.  _Who would be calling him?_  He hesitated. Instant recognition of the number was yet another reason to delay answering. The phone call could have been a welcomed distraction had it not been from someone he needed to avoid, but then again, he didn't really want to talk to anyone, anyway. He let it ring until voice mail picked up.

There was nothing to say.

His persistent phone rang again when he stood on his own door step. John ignored it as he pulled his key, inserted it into the lock, and opened the door. His biggest concern was that it would alert Mrs. Hudson of his return. He didn't want to meet her, see her, tell her. She would have to be told soon enough—God, especially before it made the broadcast news—but, maybe he was already too late, just like he had been this morning.

Neither she nor the tattooed workman were about. With guilty relief, John tiptoed painfully up the creaky seventeen steps to the safety and quiet of his flat, but a text chimed just before he had gained the landing. He stole a quick glance at the message.

**_OMG. SH Sorry! Call me._ **

Sympathy, if that was what the call was about, from Greg was the last thing he needed. John felt his lower lip quiver and fought to hold it still. He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on the nearby peg, immediately dismissing the thought that it would now be the only coat hanging on the wall.

He checked Greg's text message again, thought for a moment, and chose to ignore it. Looking past his phone to the floor, he thought he saw dark spots on his light camel shoes— _blood?_  A sickening feeling and the pain in his head greeted him as he bent down to examine them more closely,  _not blood,_  and unlace his shoes. Up-righting himself as quickly as possible, he leaned one hand on the threshold for support, and slid each heel out of with the toe of the other, until both shoes were left on the landing side-by-side. Immediately, he pulled off both socks as well and left them where they lay.

One barefoot step forward was all it required to enter the sitting room. Instead, John sidestepped onto the cool kitchen floor and grabbed a glass from the cupboard over the sink. The simplest act, to fill it with water, seemed impossible at first, but after waiting a moment and heaving a deep sigh, he was able to do it. Drinking it was a new effort, which he eventually accomplished, although the water did not quench his thirst. He tried it again, and then again, and again to no avail. He could not appease the parched feeling nor relieve the dusty taste in his mouth.

Standing in the kitchen, John's eyes skirted the abandoned lab equipment on the table. Even without looking directly at anything, whispers of past arguments over the "apparent" disorder swelled, then faded in the silence. He could not let his thoughts dwell on the man who had always dressed himself impeccably but left their flat in such organized chaos.

Another chime indicated a new text. Curious, John viewed it.

 ** _Call me!_** Greg was not taking the hint.

John's head still ached, and whilst his thoughts seemed more coherent, he considered checking his pupils for signs of concussion in the bathroom mirror; except, after a few steps toward the bathroom, he lost all interest in going farther. The open bedroom door at the end of the hallway filled the quiet flat with more whispers he needed to avoid.

Backing into the kitchen, he cut a right face toward the sitting room and saw his armchair. It seemed too far from where he stood in the doorway. Feeling agitated and overheated, John pulled his black V-neck jumper off, flung it carelessly behind him, and heard it flop softly on the kitchen floor. Beads of sweat dotted his creased brow. His heart raced. Once more the phone chimed a new text.

**Where _ARE_  you?**

Angry, John texted an immediate reply:  **At 221B. Come arrest me.**

Separate texts chimed in sequence; obviously, DI Lestrade couldn't wait long enough to combine them into one message.

**No arrest.**

**Charges dropped.**

**Will come alone to explain.**

**May be awhile.**

And then as an afterthought, the last one intimated worry that John might do something drastic:

**Stay Ok. Pls.**

John agreed because  _he_ had questions for Greg;  _he_ needed information,  _he_  wanted  _answers_. There was no way in  _bloody_  hell he would let this matter die…not like this, not covered in lies. Greg would also want to talk, and he would try his best, but there were no words for this tragedy. There never could be. There was no defining the man who was gone.

Decisively, John nodded to himself. There was one last thing he needed to do alone in the flat, without the condolences of others, without their pity and sorrow mixing into his private space. After a deep sigh, he scrubbed down his face, rolled his shoulders back, and held his head erect. With eyes staring forward at the two great windows, aglow with daylight, that overlooked Baker Street, he stood at attention, closed his lids, and waited for the ghosts.

Deep silence swathed John's senses; then, they came as howling winds of memory. With a deep steadying breathe, John welcomed the rush of images, scent, and sounds from every direction and let them overrun him:

_The slender, dark-haired man with the brilliant eyes;_

_The fair face with remarkable cheekbones;_

_The sonorous baritone voice that imposed great power and control over those within earshot;_

_The hyperactive genius who craved the atmosphere of violence and danger that surrounded The Work;_

_The self-proclaimed sociopath who carved an exclusive niche both in the society he did his best to spurn and in the hearts of his friends who loved him anyway;_

_The eccentricities—untidiness, violin playing at ungodly hours, the occasional revolver practice within doors, the bizarre and often malodorous scientific experiments—sorely trying everyone's patience;_

John knew he would miss all these things _._ Above all else, however, he would miss their dynamic and true friendship—for that was what it was—their daily routines, their hair-raising adventures, their contagious laughter; being in the presence of such vitality had made John feel exhilarated and alive. Now, all he had left were grief and regrets: for actions not taken, for things not said, for being pried apart before his friend's wrist had turned cold.

000

Sometime later, John found himself sitting in his armchair, his left hand raised, knuckles kneading his forehead, his bare feet, like praying hands, touching toes to toes, staring at an empty chair. He didn't remember when he had crossed the room to sit down. The windows were dark. Two lamps were now lit in the quiet and dim flat, although he had no memory of turning them on. Everything else remained the same, except his perceptions had changed. This was not  _his_  flat. This was not  _his_ home. It was  _their_ home and Sherlock was  _not_  coming back.

As he waited for Greg to arrive, John stared bleakly ahead, weary, numb, and alone, and absentmindedly let his fingers massage his brow. Greg's concern that John might do himself harm was misplaced.  _How can you kill a man who's already dead?_ The only difference between him and Sherlock, John was still breathing.

 

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_Special thanks to englishtutor for her constant encouragement!_


	5. The Albatross

 

_Since then, at an uncertain hour,_

_That agony returns:_

_And till my ghastly tale is told,_

_This heart within me burns._

_I pass, like night, from land to land;_

_I have strange power of speech;_

_That moment that his face I see,_

_I know the man that must hear me:_

_To him my tale I teach._

_**The Rime of the Ancient Mariner**_  by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

**oooOOooo**

When John had darted off without explanations, Martha Hudson couldn't stop worrying.

After the tattooed workman had finished his chores, Mrs. Turner had stopped by, spent some time listening to her friend's relentless fretting, and suggested they both shop and go for tea as a way of getting her mind off Sherlock and John.

Mrs. Hudson gave in, despite her worrisome women's intuition. She would always rue the day, that fateful day, when DI Lestrade located her in Yumchaa, politely and patiently waiting for them to settle the bill, and offered them a ride home.

With tender discretion, he informed and brought home to Baker Street the hysterical and weeping Mrs. Hudson. In his official capacity, Lestrade escorted the two women into the flat; Martha Hudson heaved sorrowful sighs, hanging onto the detective's arm whilst mopping her eyes. The few words she tried to speak were garbled by swallowed tears.

"Now, now, dearie!" Mrs. Turner stayed close at hand, offering Martha fresh tissues from an unending supply within her large handbag and occasionally wiping her own eyes as she shed sympathetic tears.

Remaining professionally detached, Lestrade offered Martha Hudson his deepest sympathies normally accorded a bereft parent. It didn't require great deducting skills to know the anguished woman was more than just their landlady. It was obvious to him that she regularly doted on both Sherlock and John—that she considered them like sons—and he knew their feelings were mutual. Accordingly, Lestrade was kind and gentle as the bearer of bad news—news that pained him as deeply although he did not give outward signs of his grief. As a friend, however, Lestrade urged her to kit out and spend the night with Mrs. Turner, who agreed readily and helped her pack the few necessities.

After they had left, he wearily climbed the seventeen steps to talk to John.

 

**oooOOooo**

 

Motionless in his armchair, John had heard the wails of distress from Mrs. Hudson's flat below and winced. He had failed her too, but felt no remorse. He felt nothing. He could not bring himself to stand, go down to her, or console her. He could think of no response when she beseeched loudly, "Where's John? Oh, my poor Sherlock! Why?" in a commotion of sobs and goodbyes as she left the flat.

Dead silence followed. John listened attentively, hearing the slow footfalls ascend the stairs. Turning his head, he observed the silver-hair detective standing quietly on the landing with eyes downcast, head tilted, shoulders hunched as if burdened by loss—John immediately recognized a friend in mourning.

"Cuppa?" was all he said rising from his chair.

Greg looked up, his face grave and ashen, and gave a sniff and a single nod.

Within the eerie quiet of the flat, both men moved slowly, as if they didn't want to upset a tableau of memories that were unique to each of them. John did not let his eyes stray past the kettle he needed to fill, the kitchen tap that gushed loudly as he twisted the handles for the fastest flow, the ceramic mugs that clinked dully as he placed them on the table, whilst Greg wandered around the flat finding both pain and solace in everything he saw.

When the water had boiled, Greg took a seat at the far end of the kitchen table and clearing his throat broke their silence, "The Chief Superintendent is not pressing charges." His gravelly voice was unusually husky and tight.

John focused so hard on pouring the water over the tea bags in the mugs that he wasn't sure if he understood what Greg had said. After replacing the kettle on the worktop, he seated himself to Greg's left and consciously ignored the equipment on the opposite end of the table—the two-litre measure, the glass vials, the curved retort still clamped to its stand near the Bunsen burner—cleaned and ready for the chemist's return.

Confused, John slid his eyes towards Greg, "Sorry?"

"Yeah. You heard me right. Charges dropped, and no allegations of complicity in any crimes…you're clear." Greg shrugged with palms up and a sheepish grin. "Don't look at me. Nothin' I did. Still in my  _own_  hot water…."

John nodded sympathetically.

"Think Big Brother showed some muscle," Greg checked his tea waiting for it to steep, "at least for you."

Looking aside, John thought momentarily and drummed his mug with his fingers. "Should've done more…damage," he deadpanned humorlessly through clenched teeth, "…if I knew I could get off so easily." When their eyes met, John's were murderous, and Greg felt a shiver crawl up his spine.

After a moment, John's demeanor softened with gratitude for the only other man—friend—who shared in his loss. "What about you?"

Greg sensed that John's question may have had more to do with the DI's serious reprimand from the Chief Superintendent for using the consulting detective. In his quick call to John the previous night about Sherlock's impending arrest, the DI had explained his dilemma with an apology, assuring John he could help Sherlock by working official channels from within the NSY. It would take time, but he still  _had_  superiors who would listen.

Discovering time had run out, Lestrade experienced profound shock, grief, and guilt. His working association with Holmes had been years longer than John's friendship, admittedly it was not as close, but strong attachments were there. Sherlock's abrupt absence punched a dismal hole in Greg Lestrade's life, and it wasn't purely because of the cases they had shared or the reputation their collaboration had built for the DI. He respected and genuinely liked the man, despite the genius' off-putting arrogance, and no one,  _NO ONE_ , would get this, except John. Once he had learned of the tragedy, he had requested the assignment to find Mrs. Hudson. Whilst he wanted to commiserate with both her  _and_  John, he also wanted to get away from the Yard. The gossip and gloating turned his stomach as he silently listened to every single officer who harbored bad feelings for the consulting detective. He had a powerful need to unburden his personal sorrow with someone who would understand. If not with John, then whom?

"Gotta admit, I'm gobsmacked," Greg averted his eyes, touching as lightly as possible on what weighed so heavily in his heart, and huffed in resignation. "Blow me! Seven years you work with a guy…never saw this coming." Greg's voice caught, and he waited as his eyes swept the room, and landed on his hands holding the mug.

Silently, John also focused on the mug in his hands.

"He was the most arrogant, manipulative son-of-a-bitch and brought the worst out of people," Greg's voice had become distant with his recollections. "But also the best. He brought the best out of me. Yeah, so I'm taking the heat now for letting him do his thing. But, he was genius at it, he  _solved_  the  _bloody_  crimes; I don't believe for one second he  _committed_ them!" Giving John a sidelong glance, Greg realized the doctor hadn't moved. Was he even listening? "Just want you to know, mate,  _he_  made me a better investigator—but you, John, you made  _him_  a  _better_  person."

John gasped a strangled laugh and rewarded Greg's unexpected praise momentarily with a crooked half smile. It lasted a few seconds, long enough for Greg to feel that he had done one good thing this day.

"Y' know, John, people say: 'this'll pass.' Things  _will_  pass _,_ of course, but not  _this_ , not for  _me_...," Greg continued. "The ordinary stuff, like the job, will right itself. When is anybody's guess. Dunno. Reputations are a funny thing. They say, 'It takes twenty years to build a reputation and five minutes to ruin it.'"

" _What you do in this world is a matter of no consequence_." Out of nowhere, John found himself quoting his late friend, " _The question is what can you make people believe you have done._ " John sat back with a pained look on his face. His brow furrowed, his mouth drooped, and he blinked hard several times. Shaking his head, he flinched and brought his left hand, trembling again, to his forehead.

Greg reached out to press a comforting hand on John's right shoulder, but John deftly rolled it out of reach. "No!" He raised his palms up in protest. "Can't." Compassion would weaken his defenses, and John needed to be strong. "I'm fine."

"Sure, fine!" Greg backed off, understanding John's resistance and respecting it, but he would have preferred they both drop the stoic façade and wallow in their shared sorrow with as many pints it would take to deaden the pain. That gave him an idea. "Ya got anything stronger?" Greg nodded toward the half-opened bottles on the worktop behind John. "For the tea?"

Eyes widening, John pushed himself away from the table, retrieved the whiskey bottle, and placed it in front of the off-duty detective.

"Suit yourself."

Greg could not quite pour two fingers into his tea. He shoved the bottle back toward John. "And you?"

Staring at the bottle, John hesitated. His jaw set, his expression grim, he lifted the bottle and poured the whiskey into his mug until the tea rose to the brim. Testing the limits of capillary action to keep it contained, John looked as though he wanted the liquid to overflow, but he stopped before Greg had to suggest it.

Raising the warm mug for a toast, Greg waited.

John's face grew flushed, and although he used his steadier right hand, he sloshed tea on the table as he also lifted his overly filled mug and met the brown eyes studying him.

At first, neither said a word, but the meaning of the salute was unmistakable. "To friends…" Greg offered finally, keeping his mug lifted, blinking back tears.

"Here, dead, and gone." Dry-eyed, John muttered soberly, blew off the steam, and gingerly sipped his alcohol-fortified tea.

Disquieted by John's expressionless face, Greg sampled his strong tea. Immediately disappointed, he realized it was far too hot to swig and the whiskey was too diluted to offer even the slightest kick in a single sip. "Any better?" He couldn't veil his own dissatisfaction, but hoped something would help John loosen up. He was wound too tight for his own good.

"A bit," John gave a polite nod, then as a second thought, shook his head with an honest response, "Not really."

"It's too hot. Gotta cool. Next round," Greg chuckled with a teasing wink, "we dump the tea, okay?"

"Okay." John grinned weakly, then hissed. "No. It's  _not_  okay, Greg.  _Far_  from it. Tell me what happened.  _Who_ was killed on the roof?"

Greg's eyes narrowed with surprise, but his reluctance to answer immediately set John off.

"C'mon! Heard the  _bloody_  codes at the scene!" Despite his mental exhaustion from thinking so hard, John's voice had become hardened steel. "I  _know_  they found another body and a gun. You owe us… _me_ …an explanation."

"It was Moriarty—"

"—I  _know_ it was Moriarty! The  _bastard_  planned it all! Mixed a shitload of lies with just enough truth. And  _his_   _own_   _fucking_ brother….," Rage spewed his thoughts and broke his voice as John tightened his fists and clamped his lips tightly. With one long breath, he regained controlled, "… _BE-_ trayed him, leaked personal information in exchange for a powerful keycode.  _He_ was never a fraud, Greg. We  _both_  know that. Traitorous Mycroft let it all happen, let his brother take the fall — _Oh My God_ —" John choked when he heard his own words and raised a hand to shield his eyes.

"—No, wait, John." Greg's gentle but firm tone pulled John back from his dreadful memories. "I mean, James Moriarty  _was_ the body on the rooftop. Self-inflicted gunshot wound. Mouth shot. No mistaking who and how. No mistaking he's dead. Prints on the gun were a perfect match, and John, Sherlock never touched the gun."

With his blood-shot eyes and wan face, John looked utterly stricken. Reconsidering how much John should hear, Greg paused, but decided it was better to provide the preliminary data in the official report. "No apparent struggle. Overlapping foot prints indicate they walked around each other, but no patterns or supporting evidence of actual, exchanged blows."

John shook his head, very slowly at first, unable to find connections.  _But_ something  _made him admit to the lies and jump._

Furious, John smacked the table hard, splashing their teas from the mugs and rattling the glass vials. He gave a bitter snarl, "Dammit, Greg! Damn THEM ALL! Damn  _him_!" He rolled his head and shut his eyes, stammering as he relived the moments. "I, I, I never believed…standing there, listening to him… I  _couldn't_  believe he'd actually jump. But then, it was too late. No, no, no, no, NO!" His dark eyes snapped open with a disturbed look. "It was  _all_  wrong. It STILL makes no sense!" John roared, jumped up in a burst of anger, and kicked his chair with tremendous force. After colliding with the kitchen table, it rebounded, and clattered sideways to the floor _. "He_  didn't care about his reputation! Why die for something that didn't matter to him?"

Before Greg could answer, several glass vials upset by John's tirade, toppled off the table and smashed to the floor. The unexpected explosive sound startled them both and silenced John. The anger that reddened his face had vanished; instead he wore a shattered look as he stared at the floor. Without another word, he retrieved the dustpan and brush beneath the sink and carefully stepped with his bare feet closer to the broken glass.

"John, let me do it." Greg offered standing up.

"No. I got this." John responded drily, the brush in his tremulous left hand, the pan in his right. With his head bowed, he studied the perimeter of glass shards without stepping too close. "He would have liked this," John grunted as he observed the chaos. "He would've liked the pattern on the floor….Would've studied it for hours, taking measurements of the distances, calculating the speed, the angle….yeah. What a git!  _This_  would have kept him busy and  _happy_. Simple science; no need for the mind-distracting drama of sentiments, emotions, friendships…." His voice trailed; his breath hitched.

"John?"

"Sorry, Greg." Looking up and past the detective with a dead-eye stare, John strained to keep his lower lip from quivering. "I need time to put this," he waved the brush he was holding, indicating the entire flat, "in perspective—alone, tonight."

"Y'sure?" Greg couldn't cover his own hurt. "Was hoping to get your side of the story…" Quickly he diverted his gaze and swiped a hand through his close cropped hair; his voice was heavy with emotion. "Don't know what really happened. Only you do, John. Won't you tell me….?"

They  _both_  were hurting deeply. Offering the DI an understanding nod, John confessed. "I will. Tomorrow. Afraid if I start right now, I won't be able to stop myself…," his words seemed crushed by the weight of his memories.

"Tomorrow then, mate." Greg sniffed in reluctant agreement and turned to go.

With a nagging ache blooming in his chest, John feared he would not be able to hold himself together much longer. Even with Greg, a man he trusted, he needed to maintain restraint. The compelling words of his friend replayed in his head:  _"I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly ... in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you… that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."_ Except, John would not speak those lies, so he could not talk tonight. He knew, however, that when he decided to speak up, he would begin with Greg. After that, he would tell anyone who would listen, probably even those who would not. He felt a strong urge as never before, to speak out, if only to abate the all-consuming rage that burned him now.

"Talk tomorrow," John sighed, "I will. Promise. Sorry—" His mouth twisted as he cut off an anguished sound.

"—don't hesitate… call." Greg motioned with his mobile.

Placing the dustpan and brush on Greg's empty chair, John straightened his shoulders and stretched out his hand to shake, but Greg responded to impulse and embraced the forlorn man because it was what they both needed. The hug lasted long enough for them to recover their composure. For that brief moment, the fire in John's heart cooled. Clapping each other on the back, they parted without another word.

Watching from the landing as Greg descended and exited, John realized he was finally alone in 221 Baker Street. Summoning a sense of purpose, he soldiered on. He made an about-face toward the kitchen, picked up the dustpan and brush where he had left them on the chair, and examined the mess he had made. Inexplicably, the shattered glass pieces reminded him of another mess he had made—his broken friend. Unsummoned and overpowering guilt weighed him down. With a groan he collapsed in the chair, felled by a burning agony, like a man wounded in battle. Uncertain how long the searing pain might last, he closed his eyes and endured.

**oooOOooo**

 


	6. Poisoned Cup

HORATIO:

Some of this liquor's still left in the goblet.  _(he picks up the poisoned cup to drink)_

HAMLET:

As thou'rt a man,

Give me the cup. Let go! By heaven, I'll have't.

 _(takes cup from_  HORATIO _)_

000

Waking up on that first day in his own bedroom, he felt a great weight on his chest and wondered if he would be able to rise. He remembered surrendering to complete exhaustion and climbing the stairs at half-past three. However, actually putting on his pyjamas was a memory he did not have. As a man who usually thrived on his early morning routines, John had no energy to lift his head, much less begin his day. Staring at the ceiling, he contemplated his despondency. Were it the result of an actual medical condition for a patient, he'd be calling 999. But it was for himself, and whilst his mild concussion could be a factor, he knew there was no real emergency, just a grieving man trying to cope. Imagining the paramedics finding him wallowing in self-pity was enough to get him up. He threw on his dressing gown and went downstairs.

Necessity compelled him first to the bathroom where the soap, toothbrushes, shaving gels, shampoos and their separate towels were hurtful reminders. As quickly as he could, John showered, toweled himself dry, and looked about for his fresh clothes. He had forgotten them. It was a small mistake, a misstep in his personal, but orderly universe, which seriously unnerved him. Shrugging back into his dressing gown, John decided not to shave; he was having trouble looking himself in the mirror anyway.

With no appetite for breakfast or desire for morning coffee, John realized too late he had entered the kitchen for no reason. Spotting the broken glass and dustpan where they remained after Greg had left, he stooped and meticulously swept up each shiny fragment—careful not to cut his bare feet—deposited them in the bin, and left the kitchen.

Force of habit got him as far as his armchair, but unlike the day before, he was too agitated to sit down. The yellow smiley face painted on the vibrant-patterned wallpaper sneered accusingly, and John felt his heart clutch. Standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by mementos of their life together, John did not know where to look to feel less...hopeless, less alone. He could no longer ignore the belongings that were everywhere: the books and periodicals piled high on nearly every flat surface, the sleek modern armchair, the post pinned by the penknife on the mantel, the laptop left closed on the desk, and all the fond memories they conjured for John. He could hear snippets of their conversations that reached back to the beginning...

_"So why are you talking to me?"_

_"Mrs. Hudson took my skull."_

_"So I'm basically filling in for your skull?"_

_"Relax, you're doing fine."_

Except, John could not relax; he was not doing fine. He was trembling, feeling shell shocked. Throughout his medical and military career, when he was surrounded by devastation and death of soldiers and civilians, he had never felt so responsible and so worthless as he did in that moment. Tortured by self-loathing for failing his extraordinary friend, John felt he was losing himself in the uncharted territory of despair.

Seeking solace, John wandered toward the bedroom at the end of the hall. He lingered on the threshold briefly, taking in the subtle patterns on the moss-colored wallpaper, viewing the wall hangings: the small portrait of Edgar Allen Poe, the large colorful Periodic Table to the right of the entrance, and the Judo certificate inscribed in oriental characters naming the recipient who slept below it—when he actually used the double bed for rest.

But, it was forgiveness John wanted. He entered the tidy room that was so unlike their cluttered shared workspace and flung wide the mirrored doors of the armoire where the classic suits and dark shirts were color coded. John leaned in, fingered the shirts, brushed the jacket shoulders, then pulled a sleeve up to his nose and inhaled. Disappointed that he did not have the discerning olfactory sensibilities of his friend, he realized he would not find lingering fragrances; the man did not douse himself with aftershaves or colognes of any kind that would interfere with his detection work. About to shut the door, John spotted the silk blue dressing gown, pulled it free, and hugged it tenderly. Closing his eyes he tried to feel something, but all he felt was empty.

Irked, he shed his own dressing gown and pulled on his friend's, letting the cold silk glide over his chest and back, and wrapped his arms around himself in an embrace. An image in his mind's eye of dazzling blue-gray eyes peering at him startled him. He hitched a sudden breath, and dropped his head. Such sadness overwhelmed him that he climbed onto the unused bed, and embedded his face in a pillow where at last he could sniff the familiar scent and find some comfort.

He dozed for a while and woke with thoughts of hell. John had once heard a description for hell as the  _deprivation of love_. To live in the flatshare without his brilliant flatmate, the man whom he had come to love like a brother, would be a living hell—a punishment he deserved for his unforgivable sin of omission.

0000

Trapped in emotional limbo, John could not express this personal sorrow and torment to anyone, nor could he tolerate the emotional expressions of others. Not wanting to behave badly, he tried not to be harsh and critical, especially about the people for whom he cared, but his mind was in a dark place and his heart was numb.

On that first day, Mrs. Hudson could not bring up plates of food or trays of tea and biscuits she made for John. Instead, she called up to him with a strained, tearful voice from the base of the stairs and asked him to collect what she had prepared. He wasn't hungry, but he did his civil best to deal with her crying whenever they met in their foyer, on the staircase, or outside her door. At every encounter, she was so distraught, she never noticed how little he said in reply. He didn't have to contribute anything; she said enough for the both of them.

Missing was his normal sympathy for Mrs. Hudson. He realized she was having difficulty, as was he, and could not visit him. As if that would matter; there were no spots where the late detective had not cast his shadow, no place that did not have a memory attached, and so her outpouring of sorrow was as inescapable as were the ghosts of his presence.

That afternoon, when John left the flat and followed the customary routes the two of them used to frequent, he felt as if eyes were following him. He turned, somewhat self-consciously, to catch those who dared to stare, but his suspicions were unfounded. No one was looking. Why should they? The  _extra_ ordinary pair of Holmes and Watson had been severed. With the  _extra_  half cut off, the only half left was  _ordinary_. Yet, the niggling paranoia that he was being watched made him question his sanity. Trying harder to suppress his reactions, John worked to keep his face expressionless and his eyes locked on a distant point beyond the faces of passers-by.

Whispers, like snakes, slithered away as he entered the general office at the Met. Whilst it was his first time after the tragedy, he hoped it would be his last. Most of the constables and plain-clothed police officers turned their backs. Donovan, Anderson, Forrester, Bradstreet, and Gregson greeted him with the slightest nods. Otherwise, they had nothing to say. Refusing to acknowledge them as he walked past, John would not have listened even if they had spoken. For one purpose alone would John Watson step foot back inside the place where traitorous ideas had taken root and flourished; he would give his official statement—his all-important point-of-view—to the one person who would listen. When John sat down in the DI's office, with doors closed, and told the full story, Lestrade shared his loss and a common bafflement over the suicide.

Despite unburdening himself at the Met, John did not feel lighter or better. His version of events would ultimately go nowhere, influence no one, rectify no misperceptions in the general public. Consequently and almost immediately, John Watson felt the irrational need to recount it again.  _Why? Who would listen to the truth as he saw it?_

An unexpected encounter with Molly Hooper a block away from the Met might have given him an opportunity to speak, but her skittishness made him uncomfortable. He noticed that Molly, red-eyed and withdrawn, wouldn't look at him directly when he inquired about her. He was concerned for her and how she was handling the tragic news since everyone knew about her unrequited affections for his friend.

Neither she nor John broached the topic of the post mortem, although Lestrade mentioned that Molly had laid  _him_  out. John found that difficult to imagine.  _The poor thing. Such a terrible assignment. How could she handle it? She had such a crush… Will she be able to move on?_  That last thought kicked John with such force, his head began to ache and his eyes watered. Head down, he walked off without a goodbye, without sharing what happened at Bart's, and without fulfilling his dead friend last request. He could not repeat the lies, but his sense of the real truth was hard to defend. He would let Greg tell her everything he had recounted to the DI.

Ultimately, it didn't matter who would listen. It didn't matter whether they believed John's truths or the generally accepted lies; John could never escape the inconceivable contradiction that his best friend—the man who scorned sentiments of all kinds as abhorrent to that cold, precise, incredible mind—had killed himself, died in a moment of despair. How could John have been so tragically wrong about his friend's intention? Had he really known his unknowable friend, Sherlock Holmes, at all?

Such poisonous thoughts tainted his resolve all that first week.

000

The morning he found himself on the rooftop at Bart's had been a particularly difficult one. A morbid curiosity had taken hold of him whilst checking out a new flat to let. He had not yet told Mrs. Hudson that he could not live in 221B anymore. Maybe that was why he was in such a foul mood. On route to the new address, he had meandered drastically from the actual location listed in the advert and stood at the ambulance station behind St. Bart's. After another flutter of thoughts in a quasi-fugue state, he was opening the roof door and was met by the striking vista of the iconic dome of St. Paul's Cathedral, a vision worthy of angels—the last view of the two mortals who battled there.

It was a week ago to the hour that the life of his friend had ended and his own life had changed catastrophically. Much had happened in those seven days since. The areas around the hospital had been cleansed—all blood had been washed from the pavement, the yellow tape removed. The police had closed their investigation and the roof quarantine had been lifted. No longer off limits to work crews and hospital personnel who sought an illicit smoke, John found it just as easy to gain access; there was nothing stopping him.

Despite the bright sunshine, John's thoughts turned dark as he inspected the roof deck as if he would find clues even a week later that the Met had missed. Only one person would have been capable of that astonishing feat, and he was dead.

 _Dead_ and  _dishonored._

Blocking out the stunning London skyline, John shut his eyes. Instantly, he recalled the pitiful funeral service he had attended four days before. The gathering was "to honor" the one-time famous "hat detective," but there was nothing honorable about it. With the celebrated name now in ruins, his adoring public had abandoned him.

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The private group, not exceeding ten, gathered in the nonsectarian chamber at the nearly forgotten London cemetery where the aristocratic Holmes family had long ago secured several plots. It was a known fact that one such gravesite had been reserved, nearly seven years prior, for Sherlock Holmes by the detective himself. The explanation why was not shared, but the remote spot in the heart of his beloved London was probably ideal for a man who never concerned himself with cultivating friendships.

Following predetermined plans that did not include consulting John Watson, Mycroft Holmes had made all the decisions about the funeral arrangements, and the service seemed to reflect his deplorable lack of sentiments. Once the hired pallbearers, not friends of the deceased, situated the closed mahogany casket on the catafalque, the mourners were beckoned forward. A few words were spoken by a vicar, who knew very little about the man in the coffin before him— the extraordinary man he was dispatching to oblivion with the most mundane of final rites. An impassive Mycroft in a dark three-piece suit stood beside the clergyman. The surviving brother's face was as rigid as his posture, and he said nothing to correct the misinformation he heard. Two men and two women, whom Lestrade identified for John in a soft whisper, were household help from the family estate. They stood behind their "master" with bowed heads and quiet sniffles.

Molly Hooper, paler than ever and keeping herself at a slight distance, appeared fidgety and distracted. Her brown eyes darted about as though she expected someone else to show up, but when Mike Stamford arrived and the service began, she kept her eyes trained on her shoes and did not look up again. Her nervous behavior, as if she had not slept in days, made John wish he had his physician's notepad to write her a scrip for a mild sedative. After the service, he would see if Mike had his prescription pad with him and suggest it.

In quiet dignity, Mrs. Hudson wept and clutched John's left arm, sighing as if her heart would break. Supporting her as best he could, John merely listened with an empty feeling and vacant stare, out of touch with his emotions and feeling apathetic about everything else, except for his anger which he held in tight rein.

John swallowed hard and took a deep breath to manage his sense of betrayal. Afraid that he might fly off in a rage with the least provocation, he scrupulously avoided exchanging glances with Mycroft, so as to prevent them from burying two Holmes on the same day.

Standing to his right, John could tell Greg Lestrade was in genuine mourning too. Gratitude warmed his heart, realizing that, without the DI's friendship and support, he would not be able to survive the ordeal of living. Greg knew how to insinuate himself between John and the curious who feigned condolences that would otherwise reopen John's wounds.

Under gloomy skies the small procession followed the unadorned casket through the old cemetery to a quiet corner where the gravesite had been dug near a large tree. Finally, the coffin was positioned into the lowering device, signaling the end of the committal service. Whether by intention or oversight, there were no flowers to distribute as a symbolic gesture of the last goodbye.

John could only feel the wrongness of it, but not make sense of it. It all seemed stark and desolate, so unworthy of the man who did so much good, that John shut his eyes tight to block out the appalling images, this outrageous miscarriage, called a "tribute." A criminal would not have been buried with such disregard.  _Don't make people into heroes John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them._ Clearly recalling those words in the voice of his friend, John's heart clenched anew at the memory.

"John?" Greg's worried face filled his vision when he reopened his eyes. "All right, mate?"

A single nod was all John could manage.

As the mourners dispersed, the funeral director made an announcement in a solemn and respectful voice: "I am told that due to meticulous preplanning by the deceased several years ago, only the date needs to be engraved. This means his official stone marker can be installed sooner than is customary. Much sooner. Actually, it will be ready in five days." He nodded at their murmurs of surprise and gave the slightest smile that would certainly not offend. "Please visit again then, would you?"

Abruptly turning toward the only family member present, the funeral director briefly clasped both Mycroft's hands in a professionally consolatory fashion and leaned forward to whisper a few private comments in the elder brother's ear. From where John stood a distance away, the frozen visage of the British official did not show signs of thawing even as he responded to the funeral director, and John felt himself tremble with a white hot anger. A moment later, he watched the two men walk toward the cemetery office side-by-side. The more John considered that Mycroft had not uttered one word aloud on behalf of his brother, the greater his resentment and the hotter burned his fury.

Yet, John had not been able to bring himself to say anything. He had been so numb and bewildered by his grief, he would have been incapable of speaking a eulogy had he been called upon to do so. Here was yet another shortcoming that proved his worthlessness.

Lost in his brooding thoughts, John could not remember exchanging goodbyes with Mike, Molly, or Greg who apparently had taken Mrs. Hudson home. Instead, realizing they all had gone, John decided there was something he had to do, and it involved Mycroft.

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On the rooftop, the sound of the opening door snapped John back to the present. He winced in the sunlight and shielded his eyes, noticing that an orderly in scrubs who apparently had wanted to take advantage of the good day was joining him.

The mild temperatures had made the rooftop warm and inviting, and perfect for a smoke. The orderly cupped his cigarette from the gentle breezes as he lit up. After taking several draws, the young man bobbed his head congenially in John's direction. "Nice weather," he said to encourage a conversation and exhaled smoke from the side of his mouth.

"Mmm, yes, isn't it," John responded reluctantly being drawn into the conversation.

The man looked about, stretched a bit, and took a few more drags. "Great weather  _and_  great views, if you like that sort of thing." As his nostrils blew long puffs of smoke, he smiled with immense satisfaction. "Aaah."

John decided to discourage further talk and made no reply.

" 'Ave seen you around before." The worker said, moving closer and eyeing John as if he was trying to remember how and where. " D'ya work here?"

Frustrated by the intrusion, John tilted his head toward his left shoulder to work out a kink, and offered the slightest nod. "Sometimes."

"That's right!" the worker pointed at John with his cigarette hand, the burning fag wedged between his index and middle finger. "Down in the morgue. Not here for parts, are you?" He chuckled at his own bad joke and took another drag.

Narrowing his eyes, John squinted at the man suspiciously, especially irritated by the unprofessional and unethical suggestions about organ harvesting. The more he looked at him, the more he felt something about the guy didn't seem right. A glance at the man's feet gave John an answer—street shoes, not regulation shoe wear for hospital staff.  _Sherlock would have caught that instantly._

Pained by the thought, John threw the man a withering look. "How's that  _your_  business?"

Wary of John's obvious hostility, the hospital worker dropped his half-finished cigarette, crushed it with the ball of his shoe, and gave John a casual wave. "Break's over," he tossed over his shoulder and returned to the staircase without a second look back.

Aware he was reacting with some paranoia, John reflected for the briefest moment that Mycroft might be having him watched.  _Call that surveillance, Mycroft? That amateur git!_ But, the idea evaporated quickly. Mycroft would probably have nothing more to do with him after their last meeting.

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It was hours after the pathetic funeral service, and John had been waiting, unsummoned, in the private room at the Diogenes Club, just as he had done days ago, the night before the fall. His decision to confront the remaining Holmes brother with the pressing questions that had plagued him over the past four days had not been made lightly. His post-concussion symptoms had nearly abated, and whilst he did not feel he could match wits with the dominant mind of Mycroft, his passion for justice was all-consuming. Having to associate with Mycroft sickened him for so many reasons, deserting his brother was high among them, but John wanted to make sure that Mycroft was not just called out, but  _suffered_  for his treachery, one way or another. In anticipation of the confrontation to come, John was pacing the lush oriental carpet like a caged beast, when Mycroft walked in.

"John?" The dark-suited man showed reluctance and hesitated before he closed the door.

Unlike his prior meeting, John remained silent and watched Mycroft approach slowly. With narrowed eyes, John scrutinized the unreadable face of the stately man who returned his stare. So great was his grief for his lost friend, John searched for a resemblance in the eyes, nose, forehead, cheekbones, chin, hair, voice, and body language. Disappointed, John found nothing,  _nothing,_  that reminded him of Sherlock. He used to see a resemblance, but it was no longer there.

"John, I…I'm sorry," Mycroft broke the silence, " for your pain."

"You don't know what pain is." The deep pitch of John's reply conveyed the depths of his anguish.

"But I do." There was small twitch in the corners of Mycroft's mouth as he controlled a frown and the level of his voice. "I express it differently."

"Okay, so tell me. What pain are you feeling? Guilt? Grief? Or a just a  _tad_ bit of dismay for not raising a  _fucking_  finger to help your own brother in his time of need?" Furious, John fixed his fierce eyes on Mycroft's expressionless face.

"What happened on the roof with Moriarty was unanticipated," Mycroft admitted somberly, now the consummate British official. "Ultimately, the solution was  _his_  decision…we had very little warning."

"Not buying it!" John retorted vehemently, his face flushed as his fists clenched. He rocked from foot to foot like a boxer ready to throw a punch. "You're the  _bloody_  mastermind behind British secret service operations! The 'most indispensable man' in the country, you know everything. You control everything!"

"Surely, you know you are overestimating my influence." Instinctively Mycroft took a step back, although not actually out of harm's reach if John decided to use his fists.

"All I know, is I overestimated your  _concern_  for him—" John choked and quickly swallowed a lump in his throat as he bowed his head.

To ensure the combative soldier would not take sudden action, Mycroft gentled his voice. "Sherlock is …  _was..._ always a rogue. For God's sake, John, he  _wanted_ to be a pirate! Most of his life, he  _saw_ things differently. He didn't  _play_  by the rules. He  _wanted_ to go it alone...to do it  _his_  way. Surely you of all people know—knew this about him. No amount of help I could offer would have mattered if he didn't  _want_  it." Mycroft was guarded as he studied the immobile man a metre from him. He knew better than to underestimate the determination of a quiet John Watson

"The one exception, the  _only_  one he would accept help from," Mycroft delivered his next remark with deliberate care "…was  _you_."

John's head snapped up, his distressed face betraying his deep vulnerability. Mycroft's words echoed the very thoughts that had been haunting him—that his friend had _rejected_  his help this time. "So, I  _alone_ failed him?"

"No, John." Often manipulative of John's loyalty to his difficult brother, Mycroft internalized his displeasure at John's self-punishing conclusion and made a rare attempt at solace. "No. If there was anyone he wanted along…it was  _you_." He paused struggling to find the right words that would relieve the aggrieved friend. "Let me assure you. He would not have wanted your life forfeit for his. If he didn't include you, it was because it was too dangerous—"

"—We were a team, Mycroft!" John erupted his voice near breaking. "Where he went, I went! That was our commitment…" John's eyes widened with a new revelation, "…well,  _my_ commitment to him. Maybe I got it wrong. Maybe I got  _him_  all wrong. But this 'suicide' makes no sense. The reasons are wrong. Something  _else_  made him jump."

Mycroft pressed his lips tightly and said nothing.

"And I wasn't there to stop it." The deep blue of John's eyes darkened with remorse and his left hand began to tremble. Quickly, he grabbed it and used his body to shield the tell-tale weakness from Mycroft's notice. With head turned as well, John focused on a spot on the wood-paneled wall across the stylish room. "Why did he die? What made him kill himself?"

Mycroft thought for a long moment. "I don't have an answer for you." The truth in his soft voice was crushing. "He did have a weakness. He cared too much."

"Cared?" John whirled on Mycroft, in that instant forgetting the tremor in his hand. "About what? Don't give me that  _shit_  about his reputation," John seethed through gritted teeth. "Your brother didn't care what  _other_  people thought. He only cared about the truth. Public opinion would not dictate to him what was right."

When John paused, he realized his traitorous hand was in plain sight, exposing him to Mycroft's scorn. Humiliated, he clasped his hands in parade rest behind his back and glared defiantly.

The inscrutable Mycroft remained silent as if whatever was going on with John didn't matter to him.

Inhaling sharply, John dropped his gaze to the floor, and continued in a leaden voice, "Now that Moriarty's dead, where's your bloody keycode? Did you find it?"

"Ah, yes. The keycode." Eyes averted, Mycroft shook his head slowly. "Our intel has uncovered new information. No matter. The certainty is, until the network is dissolved, we are not out of danger. It may take a while, but it is something we  _must_ do."

"There is one other thing you  _must_  do." John had turned away again, holding his left arm out of sight, with his head still bowed. "If you couldn't help him  _before_ ," he appealed softly, his voice hoarse with profound emotion, "help him  _now_. Clear his name. These LIES shouldn't be his LEGACY!"

John did not see the genuine admiration—and affection—in Mycroft's face as he answered the grieving doctor, "The spider's dead. The web will be dismantled." A shift in his voice almost made him sound cheery. "I now have my  _best_  operatives working on it…."

"Too late, Mycroft. Your best operative is dead." With his back still toward Mycroft, John lifted his head and snorted a harsh-sounding laugh. "Tell everyone who will listen the truth. You  _owe_ him that much at least!" When he spun around to face him again, however, he wore a menacing scowl that was unmistakably ominous. "As for me, stay the  _fucking hell_  out of my life! If I  _ever_ see you again, you may not have time to blink."

Without another word, the soldier pulled open the door and marched away.

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Poisoned by these memories, John lifted his face toward the bright sunshine heating up the rooftop, and repeated at the top of his lungs. "LIES  _will not_  be his LEGACY!" Rage drove him to the wall where his friend fell and he leaned over, looking down. His gut clenched at the sight of the drop and a slight dizziness made him step away and recover his balance.

"Mind the ledge! Stand back." An authoritative voice commanded from behind him. John whirled to see two men, the rooftop smoker he had encountered minutes earlier and a second man in a suit, with their palms fanning the air. They were still too far away to do anything but advise. "Don't let's do anything rash!" The suited man said as if he actually  _cared._

With his anger turned inward, John snarled his reply. "No! Don't  _you_  dare come closer! YOU stand back!" A blinding fury overtook him, and John unleashed his venomous wrath, hurling scathing curses at the two strangers. Never had he felt such despair and the urge to destroy as he did in that moment. His pent-up grief, his loneliness, his doubts, his distrust of everything and everyone, and the bitterness of betrayal filled him with excruciating pain that seemed inescapable.

Against all reason, John stepped onto the same ledge where his friend had dropped to his death and, in a moment of emotional despair, shouted back to the men: "No! Stay exactly where you are! Don't move! Or, or… I'll… jump…"

000

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to the indispensable Sherlockology website for details I could never have known firsthand about room interiors at 221B, to the transcripts by Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan, to englishtutor for her excellence and to my honorable friend for her brilliance. Thanks to everyone who has shared their thoughts about this developing series. Your feedback had transformed the one-shot I originally intended into a multiple-chapter story.


	7. Good Horatio

HAMLET:

O Good Horatio, what a wounded name,

Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me!

If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart

Absent thee from felicity a while,

And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain

To tell my story.

0000

The view was terrifying, and instantly John's despair vanished, anger vaporizing as he stared at the breathtaking skyline of London from the edge of St. Bart's. Keeping his balance with his arms carefully extended like a tightrope walker, he refrained from looking down.

 _NO!_  He didn't want to die, not like his friend. He did  _not_  want to drop out of existence in this way and feel the life-crushing impact with the pavement. He was not that desperate. If this was despair, it was thoughtless and mindless—everything his friend was not—a contradiction that needed investigation and resolution.

Instantaneous thoughts followed in swift succession and continued to hold John back from the brink.

 _"There's stuff that you wanted to say."_  The voice of his therapist, Ella, coaxing him during his office visit yesterday, entered his head. "… _but didn't say it."_

 _Yes, this is true…_ John acknowledged during the seconds he lingered deciding his fate.

 _And, think, John!_ Asserted the voice of reason that sounded like Sherlock.  _If what other people said about me upsets you, then you cannot die like this. They will assume you_ knew _all along that I was a fraud. If you die, who will tell our story, validate our work, and clear our names? Only you know the real truth, John. This is why you must live._

 _So much needs to be said…_ John agreed… _to defend_ our  _names…_

Affirming that he still cared too much about his life, about  _their_  life together, John felt duty bound to defend his friend's reputation. Swallowing hard, he took a cautious step back off the low rise that rimmed the roof, planted both feet on the roof deck, and straightened his shoulders.

"I  _WILL_  clear your name," he said aloud, and pivoted toward the two men staring at him, their relief plain on their faces. "No one can tell me he was a fraud!" John rallied and railed at them, feeling the headiness of a second chance. "D'you hear me?" He addressed the gawking men with an excited roar, "I  _WILL_  clear his name!"

"Okay, mate," the man in the suit placated him, inching closer with the obvious intention of keeping John from the dangerous edge.

"Tell your  _superior_  what I said." John dodged the restraining hands reaching for him and took a defensive stance with arms raised, ready to repel. They complied by not moving. He was certain they were a couple of Mycroft's handlers who had been tailing him. Whatever their skill-sets, however, they were not adept at talking down a suicide. Fortunately, John talked himself off the edge.

"Remind him that I know the truth!" John pressed his palm over his heart, "I cannot live believing the lies and I  _never_ promised to spread them. Don't care how long it takes. I will speak up until more people believe what I know. Sherlock Holmes was  _not_  a fraud." John noted it was the first time he could use Sherlock's name without flinching.

The rooftop door opened and closed. Another man in uniform coveralls with SBH insignia pulled out a cigarette pack. Unfazed by the company on the roof, he gave them a dismissive nod, lit up, and took a long drag.

John eyed the third man suspiciously. Perhaps the "worker," a better-trained operative, was signaling the other two to stand down. It was difficult to tell, but John was not going to wait around to find out. Passing the three strangers without another word, he left the roof. No matter how harshly the world might treat him, John knew it was time to go, not the quickest way by leaping off the roof, but back into the world, to restore the legitimate legacy of the man whose life work and name had been wounded by lies.

Each step that he took through the London streets brought John farther from Bart's rooftop and filled him with relief. His quickened steps matched the pace of his thoughts as he considered his options. He had made an important decision, one he could live with. John saw that he could _not_  leave things unsaid, that he could  _not_  leave the contradictions unresolved. He was not suffering from prolonged mental illness, so if he  _chose_  suicide, he would be a coward, hurting those he loved and those who loved him. John was not a coward.

For that matter, neither was Sherlock. John paused both in stride as he allowed fellow pedestrians to pass him, and in thought. John  _believed_  Sherlock would not have let sentiment sway him; neither would that singular man have allowed the feelings and opinions of others to motivate him. A tainted reputation would certainly not have been enough provocation for the detective to commit suicide. Sherlock was too full of life to choose death—there had to be another reason so inescapable, forcing him to make that awful choice.

This question haunted John most of all. Not knowing  _why_  his friend died—the real reason—was a mystery that he feared would have no satisfactory answer. Shaking off his regrets, John slowly resumed his walk.

When he arrived at his destination—the new flat he had intended to see earlier—John was quick and decisive; he agreed to take the fully furnished flat immediately, telling himself he could afford it _for a little while_ ,  _just a little while_ , assuming he gave extra hours at the surgery _._

Back at 221B, John was relieved that Mrs. Hudson was out. He felt guilty, but he wanted to avoid her. He was not in the mood for her long-winded explanations and well-meaning clinging. He didn't want to tell her it had hurt him to see the boxes piling up around the flat that she was collecting for Sherlock's things. He especially knew he wouldn't be able to help her pack them up. If he didn't make a clean break straightaway, he might not survive.

Uncertain where she might be, he hurried. Gathering up his clothes, his laptop, and essentials, he listened for her return, trying not to imagine her sad eyes or her disapproval at catching him stealing away like a thief. At last satisfied he had what he needed, he raced down the stairs from his bedroom, crossed toward where he had hung his jacket, and thrust his arms through the sleeves.

And then John made one small, human mistake. While swinging around to hike the jacket onto his shoulders, he glimpsed the empty chairs in the sitting room, and despite his urgency to leave, John couldn't move. Grief transfixed him whilst nostalgia seduced him, and he lingered on the threshold, staring dry eyed at his former life.

With a deep sigh, he shook his head realizing, he would not be able to leave without  _saying_  what he needed to say. "Mmmm," he tried, but working past the heartache was too difficult and he could not speak in words. Instead, he closed his eyes and listened to the two-way conversation in his head:

_Where are you going, John?_

_You know where. Anywhere but here._

_That bad, is it?_

_Yes,… yes, it is. Because it WAS that good WITH you when you were here. We had something special. I don't think you—we—really understood it._

_Sorry._

_You should be._

_I know it's hard to fathom why it happened…_

_Don't get me started, mate. Don't get me riled._

_Running away is the answer, then?_

_Isn't that what you did?_

John opened his eyes and focused on the now empty chairs where their banter had stimulated exciting conversations and sometime arguments, the now empty tables where Sherlock had often sat at his or John's laptop shouting exuberantly about his successes with datamining. John glanced toward the kitchen table still set with lab equipment, remembering how the chemist enjoyed his experiments despite the occasional ghastly odors. As Sherlock coughed and choked over the fumes, dispelling the vapors with graceful waves, a broad grin might transform his face, but only when he shoved the goggles to the top of his head, could John tell how successful the scientist had been—when the smile had reached his eyes.

_If you must go—_

_—Don't judge me, Sherlock. As long as I 'm alive, you will be too. There is no way I will let_ you _go, but I_ have  _to go from here._

For one last moment, he stopped to reconsider what he was doing. He was leaving everything that reminded him both of his fulfilling life with Sherlock and how abruptly he lost it. Until he died, he would carry this emptiness with him.

That thought frightened him. With sudden quick steps, John crossed the sitting room toward the book case. On a high shelf was a small tin box belonging to Sherlock. John had never learned the significance of the box or the items within it, although once or twice he had seen Sherlock poke through the contents with his long fingers, and then close the lid without offering any explanation. Respecting his flatmate's privacy, John had never asked.

Curiosity compelled John to take if down, lift the lid, and inspect the few items: a crumpled piece of paper, an old-fashioned brass key, a peg of wood with a ball of string attached to it, a plain gold ring, and three rusty old disks of metal.

John swiped up the ring, replaced the tin box on the shelf, and put this tangible token by which to remember his friend in his jacket pocket as he walked slowly toward the landing. His throat tightening with unspoken emotion, John attempted one word in a hoarse whisper. "Goodbye." He turned on his heel and quietly descended the stairs.

0000000000000000

John's first night in the new flat was not without ghosts and voices.

Within one of his tantalizing dreams, where the translucent face and fading voice of Sherlock vanished in shadows, the sadness of his loss made him groan aloud, waking him. Unwelcomed thoughts swarmed in his head, and John tossed from side to side, until finally he lay on his back. With his forearm flung over his head, John stared at the unfamiliar ceiling. The street light soaked the gauze fabric of the sheer curtains with a soft illumination that accentuated the peculiar cracks and meandering patterns in the ceiling plaster. As John traced them with his eyes, he felt his thoughts ebb and flow and the tension leave his body.

Since his revelation on the roof that morning, John had gained a renewed respect for his life and his emotions. He had come so close to making a terrible mistake. His personal grief had nearly cost him everything. Conceding that his wounds were raw and deep, and would leave permanent scars, John  _needed_ to believe that a purpose would help him come to grips with a loss that otherwise would be unendurable. And now that he could admit, at least to himself, that he  _was not_  fine, that he had only begun the mourning process for Sherlock, he knew he could survive the anguish of this life-long separation only if he took it one day at a time, sometimes in minute intervals, like a recovering addict.

John realized how profoundly changed he had been by his friendship with Sherlock Holmes. From the first there had been something addictive in Sherlock's presence that gave him an adrenaline high, made him dash through the streets and leap across rooftops, even though he had been walking with a limp and used a cane. Watching his friend think at lightning speeds was astonishing, hypnotic, and breathtaking, so much so that John usually found himself exhilarated after Sherlock had made a deduction. Sherlock was John's daily dose of dopamine—giving pleasure through stimulated sensations—and now without Sherlock, John was inert and devoid of happiness.

As he lay with these thoughts flowing unhampered through his mind, the previous session with Ella came back to him in vivid detail.

ooOOoo

_He had gone to see her the day before his reckoning on the roof, when everything had still seemed so hopeless._

_Exhausted with shock and misery, John sat with legs crossed and listened to the thunder roll closer. Rain hit the windows with such force that rivulets streamed in crazed patterns on the panes—not unlike how he felt inside, pelted and in pain._

_"Why today?" she asked._

_Blinking rapidly at the inanity of the question, John refocused his eyes, obviously not pleased. "D'you want to hear me say it?"_

_As a physician, John was well aware that psychological methods had their uses, but at that moment, as a man with deep emotional wounds, he had found it too painful to cooperate._

_His decision to seek Ella's help was partially an old reflex. Finding it increasingly difficult to manage normal routines, he needed to buck up before he resumed work at the surgery, especially as his powers of concentration had become abysmal; several times on the Bakerloo he had missed Baker Street by three stops. How would he be able to handle his patients with such a spongey memory? They had granted him "c_ ompassionate leave for bereavement _," but that would only last so long._

_He felt lost and alone like he had two years before, but this time, his sense of isolation was so much worse. Maybe, he was too far gone for help. His temper had become dangerously volatile, his patience short. Half of him felt completely apathetic—like his right hand that lay quietly in his lap as he sat opposite his therapist. The restless half wearied him with the need for constant activity. Even now, his left hand tapped on the chair's carved arm and he couldn't stop it._

_"Eighteen months since our last appointment." Ella's fluid voice contained a slight reprimand._

_His left elbow rested on the arm of the chair, whilst his hand rose in protest; otherwise John maintained his cool, even though his anger that simmered below the surface was obvious. "D'you read the papers?" Her analytical ploy of feigned ignorance was making his temper flare, but he endured the long wait until she finally replied._

_"Sometimes." Wise to his passive resistance talents for diverting the conversation, Ella made her answer short to keep on topic._

_"Mmm, and you watch telly?" He nodded his head emphatically, his forefinger and thumb pulled anxiously at his lower lip._

_Ella gave him no reply this time. She wanted him do the talking,_

_John's eyes flitted side to side under his furrowed brows, and whilst shaking his head, his expressive left hand pointed down toward himself. "You know why I'm here." Swiftly his hand returned to his lips stifling a tiny groan as he kept his eyes trained forward. Frozen in that pose, he locked his vision on a spot behind Ella and took another long moment to collect his thoughts._

_After letting the sound of the pouring rain fill the silence, John tried again, "I'm here becauzz—" He waved his hand as his voice faltered. Losing what little momentum he had left, he bowed his head. Lost in his overwhelming thoughts, John closed his eyes, unable to finish his words, feeling entirely finished with life, and swallowed. Tears filled the back of his throat._

_With genuine sympathy, Ella leaned forward using her trained voice to encourage him to express himself, "What happened, John?"_

_John's eyes reopened with an introspective stare. He was seeing the tragedy play out again despite sitting in the therapist's office. Unable to endure these images for long, he grunted softly and shut his eyes willing them away. After several deep breaths he renewed his efforts to speak once more. "Shrrrlk…" John swallowed the name, fearing he might choke on it. He cleared his throat, but it didn't help. It was a struggle to summon the words._

_"You need to get it out," Ella urged kindly._

_They both understood it would be an enormous breakthrough for John's emotional well-being if he succeeded. He nodded in affirmation. On an intellectual level, John knew he must speak, yet, on the raw emotional level, it was nearly impossible._

_"My best friend…" he bemoaned in a tender whisper, "…Sherlock Holmes ..." Conflicted, John tilted his head and pushed onward through the tears and pain, "... is dead."_

_Hearing it aloud broke him; he wept in silence, letting the driving rain cover the sounds of his anguish. For how long he succumbed to his sorrow, sitting with his hands clasped and his legs crossed, he wasn't sure, but when he had recovered his composure, Ella continued._

_"There's stuff that you wanted to say ..." she coaxed._

_Thunder crashed overhead as John's mouth opened in a failed attempt to respond. He closed it again, helpless in his speechlessness._

_" ...but didn't say it," she continued._

_Finally, in a breathy voice he managed a simple. "Yeah."_

_"Say it now," she encouraged._

_He had already said enough. The welling of emotions in his throat made speech impossible. He could not push for more. Unclasping his hands that lay in his lap, John raised his palms up._

_"No," he said softly as he slowly shook his head and rocked his crossed leg restlessly. John grimaced to force back his sadness and flexed open his fingers one more time. "Sorry. I can't," he choked back the words and bowed his head._

ooOOoo

When John rose the next morning, fatigued by his first night on a long road to recovery, he realized what day it was. The headstone had been installed and he had promised Mrs. Hudson he would accompany her when she paid her respects. John studied his reflection in the bathroom mirror; his face looked drawn, his eyes bloodshot, but at least now he could look at himself. If he could overcome his self-loathing, then just perhaps he could get through this next ordeal. He wondered if he would be able to deal with this test of his enduring grief.

Other than exchanging initial amenities, the two chief mourners sat staring out the taxicab windows, rarely speaking during the ride. The heady fragrance from the mixed bouquet of lilies, which Mrs. Hudson held close—as she might have their dying friend—scented the interior of the vehicle, making it hard to breathe. John was relieved when the taxi turned and motored up the private road. As they passed through the black wrought-iron gate of the cemetery, John noticed assorted vagrants lingering outside, perceived as a nuisance by society, yet he couldn't help but wonder if any of them were from Sherlock's Homeless Network.

It had only been five days since their last visit. Now the casket, the funerary workers, and grounds equipment had disappeared leaving a smoothed rectangle of fresh dirt before a polished black marble headstone. Newly-planted grass seed was already sprouting. Somehow the natural process of life beginning again seemed an insult to John.

Side-by-side beneath a spruce tree in the quiet corner of the cemetery they examined the engraved name spelled out in capital letters-and the date. That was all; no quote—nothing—to remark on the man's contribution to life, or any words of dedication by family. No wonder it was done so quickly. John was appalled, but quashed the feeling. He did not want to distress Mrs. Hudson further. Once Sherlock's reputation was cleared, he would make sure an apt tribute was added. John watched silently as Mrs. Hudson lovingly laid her bouquet at the base of the stone marker and stepped back. In reverence, they both stood with hands folded and listened to the soothing sounds of chirping birds.

Soon Mrs. Hudson joined them with her own chirping voice. "There's all the stuff, all the science equipment." She confided, "I left it all in boxes. I don't know what needs doing. I thought I'd take it to a school." She glanced at John and made an appeal, "Would you ...?"

"I can't go back to the flat again—not at the moment." Firmly, he deflected her entreaty and stared at the earth covering his friend.

Entwining her arm through his, Mrs. Hudson studied his set face and hugged his arm compassionately.

"I'm angry." John admitted suddenly, perhaps reacting to the sympathy in her touch. Expressing aloud his personal feeling took him aback. He inhaled a deep breath to regain control of his face and emotions.

"It's okay, John," Mrs. Hudson responded kindly patting his left arm. "There's nothing unusual in that." Her consoling voice was tinged with irritation. "That's the way he made everyone feel." Her litany of complaints was not new, but she offered them in a sad, nostalgia tone. "All the marks on my table; and the noise—firing guns at half past one in the morning!"

"Yeah." John nodded resigned that she had missed his point, and prepared himself for the direction to which her grief and grievances seemed headed.

Her voice began to build with annoyance. "Bloody specimens in my fridge. Imagine – keeping bodies where there's food!"

"Yes." He didn't want to go there; the press of memory was intensifying. He at first closed his eyes, but as she grew more hysterical with her frustration and grief, his eyelids began to flutter in a nervous response.

"And the fighting!" Her voice had hit the breaking point. "Drove me up the wall with all his carryings-on!"

His eyes snapped wide and John had to interrupt her. "Yeah, listen," leaning toward her with exceptional patience, he confided, "I…I'm not actually that angry, okay?"

"Okay." She nodded sadly and released John's arm. "I'll leave you alone to, uhm ..." She tapped her index finger against her lips as if trying to sssh herself, "... you know."

Mrs. Hudson blew her nose and ambled toward the church. It took John a moment to realize he would finally be alone—to share his thoughts—with his friend. The sudden opportunity encouraged him. The farther Mrs. Hudson retreated, the greater his desire to speak. John inhaled in readiness, pulled his left hand free of his jacket pocket, and repositioned himself for a conversation. Once more he checked to ensure his landlady was far enough away, before he faced the grave of his friend with a renewed focus.

At first it was difficult. "Um..." He scratched his nose thoughtfully and searched for words as if they were hanging in midair. "Hmmmm, right. You ..." He nodded with determination to continue. "You told me once," he cleared his throat, "that you weren't a hero…."

This memory of that moment made him stop, take a deep breath, and steady his voice. "Umm ..." He raised his head up and gave it a slight tilt as he quipped, "there were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this: you were…" John felt a sudden release as his feelings began to spill, "the best man, and the most human—" he fumbled for a different word and shook his head, realizing there was no better description for the remarkable man, "— _human being_  that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie." His lower lip quivered, and the threat of breaking down pressed him toward an abrupt finish, "and so ... There!" He blew out his relief.

A crow cawed three times, but John didn't notice. He had done what he needed to do. He had said it, as his therapist recommended, where it mattered most here at the grave site. However, in that moment, it was as though a burden that had been tied around his neck had slipped loose, freeing him from the strangulation that had held his words back.

He threw a backward glance towards Mrs. Hudson who was still waiting well out of earshot. John sniffled, took three steps toward the black marble marker, and splayed his fingers at the very top edge in a caressing gesture. Cold to the touch, it stimulated his memory of Sherlock's still warm wrist—the last time he touched his friend.

"I was so alone." Sorrow building in his heart, he patted the stone, "and I owe you so much." Thinking he was done, he drew in a breath to stopper his tears, and nodded briskly once. "Okay."

But John was not done. After taking a few steps away, he spun around to face the grave. Giving in to all he had repressed since Sherlock had died, John pleaded with the ghost of his friend.

"No, please, there's just one more thing, mate!" Anguish made his voice tremble, inconsolable sadness made him close his eyes, but he spoke with a desperate hope as if the dead could actually hear him. "One more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for me." He dropped his gaze knowing he was asking too much of the man who had always astonished him. "Don't ...be…," as he prepared himself to say the next word, dread squeezed his heart, "...dead." Pursing his lips for control, John realized the impossibility of his wish—he could not deny what he had witnessed. Although his voice was heavy with heartbreak, he continued his unorthodox prayer. "Would you do thaaaa...?" Head bowed, he heaved a sob. "Just for me, just stop it." He argued one last time pointing to the grave. "Stop this."

To compose himself, John sunk his chin to his chest with an audible and deep sigh, but the permanence of loss overtook him. He surrendered to it at last. He covered his eyes with his left hand as tears spilled. Silent sobs shook his hunched shoulders, and the possibility that he could remain, like a sculpted monument of mourning, seemed real. There were no miracles to be granted here, however. With that thought urging him on, John pulled himself from his desolation. After quickly palming away his tears, he pinched the bridge of his nose and sniffed several times to clear his head. Resuming the respectful mien of a soldier, John raised his head, straightened his shoulders and trained his eyes on the sky above and beyond the black marble tombstone. Making a ceremonial salute with a quick nod, John cut a left turn and strutted away. Keeping eyes front and trained on what lay ahead, he left the final resting place of Sherlock Holmes with renewed determination to clear the name of his friend.

ooo0000ooo

_"Heavy hearts, like heavy clouds in the sky, are best relieved by the letting of a little water." Christopher Morley_

_000_

 

_THE END until Season 3..._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Special thanks to my betas, englishtutor and my honorable friend, who let me test the waters of their patience with my sometimes very rough drafts, along with the amazingly accurate transcripts by Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan for each BBC episodes.


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